


how to date your friendly neighbourhood super secret agent.

by dustbear



Series: friendly neighbourhood super secret agents [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Crack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, First Date, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Identity Porn, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:54:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 21,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbear/pseuds/dustbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agents Maria Hill and Phil Coulson accidentally meet the woman and man of their dreams(respectively), and have to work hard to keep their super secret agent spy jobs a secret in the pursuit of something resembling a normal dating life. </p><p>Coincidentally, so do Natasha and Clint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. MARIA: the one where Maria meets a girl.

**Author's Note:**

> So, bear with me. This is vaguely set 5 years prior to the events of The Avengers, in a world where SHIELD is a more sprawling organization, Maria Hill and Phil Coulson are still just senior agents, and Clint and Natasha aren't a partnered team yet, although they are friends.
> 
> Updates will be several times a week, and the mature rating is for mentions of sex and violence, although they will not be graphic.

Maria Hill hates this sort of thing. Standing awkwardly in a bar, holding a ginger ale, pretending it’s actually a whiskey and ginger so no one thinks she’s a total prude. She’s done this before, this “hanging out” in a bar, glancing at pretty girls and handsome girls and girls with spiky hair and girls with short skirts and girls with pink hair as they sashay, stomp, slink by her. But then, she was undercover, unimpressive, unnoticeable, and she can sense the irony in still being entirely invisible to this crowd now, when she is most certainly not undercover at all. She’s thirty eight. Her sisters are married. Her mom has been nagging her for 14 years about settling down with a nice man, a nice woman, it _doesn’t really matter_ at this point, Maria, just _someone_. You work too much, her mom says, you don’t have a life, her mom says, you don’t have any friends, and it’s all true, but she likes working. And she sort of has a life. She has some friends. Well, they’re co-workers too, but she hangs out with Phil outside of work, and as a matter of fact, it’s his fault she’s here.

She stares down at her phone, thumbing a quick text message to Phil, the instigator of this horrible, awful, self esteem crushing bullshit.
    
    
    to Phil Coulson: this is awful.
    
    from Phil Coulson: Hang in there, kid.
    
    to Phil Coulson: whose idea was this, anyway?
    
    from Phil Coulson: Mine.
    
    to Phil Coulson: motherfucker. come join me.
    
    from Phil Coulson: Still at work. And, I can’t hang out in a lesbian bar, dumbass.
    
    to Phil Coulson: neither can i, clearly. i’m leaving.

Maria tries to pays her tab, but the bartender waves her off - it’s not really worth his time to ring up two glasses of ginger ale. She sighs, taking one last look around the room, full of women that won’t look at her, and exits the bar.

“You weren’t dressed for this, were you?” a voice says as she steps out of the front door. Maria whips around and a woman is looking her up and down, her face dimly lit by the neon sign. She is small, but lithe, and her mostly impassive face barely disguises a smile.

“What, business casual isn’t the dress code?” Maria answers, self deprecatingly, looking back down at her pressed black slacks and white buttoned dress shirt, tucked in. “Not really my scene, I guess.”

“Not mine either. Do you smoke?”  
Maria doesn’t smoke, but she has always kept a pack of cigarettes with her, a habit from her undercover days, where smoking was a good excuse to hang out outside buildings. She fishes it out of her jacket; it’s a bit battered, but it will do. Maria tosses it over.

“Thanks.” The woman says, shifting under the light, and now Maria can see her better. She is...interesting. She is certainly pretty, but there is something hard, and something cold lurking under her surface. Her hair is dark, maybe brown, maybe a dark red, and it is barely contained under her black hoodie. She looks like someone who has stories, Maria thinks, and she’s learned to recognize how those people look. The woman fishes her own lighter out and tosses the pack of cigarettes back to Maria, who holds it dumbly in her hand.

“I can light you up?” the woman offers, holding her lighter up. Her features flicker.

“It’s okay,” Maria says, before realizing that smoking would have given her an excuse to linger, “I’m - I’m trying to quit.” she says, sliding the pack back in her pocket.

The woman laughs. “Me too, but it’s been a rough day.”

Maria thinks it’s probably a good time to leave, and head on home, but instead she leans against the wall, and exhales. It _has_ been a rough day. 

“I’m Natalie,” the woman says.

“Maria.”

“So, what’re you doing here, if it’s not your scene?”

“My friend - he’s been trying to get me to leave my house...and meet people.”

“You don’t sound like you want to meet people.”

“Not particularly. Well, maybe.”

“Well, you’ve met me now.” Natalie quirks up one half of her mouth.

“What do you do?” Maria asks, actively preventing herself from going into interrogation mode.

“I’m an actress. A stunt double, mostly. You?”

“I’m a project manager. A lot less interesting.” Technically, Maria thinks, she’s not lying at all.  She does manage projects. Projects like storming a HYDRA base to retrieve classified information, or projects that extract civilians out of war zones, or projects that end major drug smuggling rings, but they’re definitely still _projects_.

“Hmm.” Natalie says, and Maria has to admit that she’s probably going out of her way to make herself boring to the new woman. Wow, Maria, she thinks to herself - you made a “meeting new people” undercover persona, and she’s a project manager who’s trying to quit smoking. _Exciting_. That’s why you’re so popular with the ladies, I'm certain of it. Maria has always been good with self deprecating inner monologue; her greatest skill is that no one else ever knows.

“Well, I’m off. Gotta work tomorrow.” Maria groans, pushing herself off the wall. No point in embarrassing herself in front of a new person to end an already painfully amateurish night.

“Nice meeting you, Maria.” Natalie says, but Maria is already walking down the street, hands shoved in her pockets.

Maria feels the tension flood out of her as she closes her apartment door. What a humiliating night, she grumbles to herself. She fishes the contents of her pockets, dropping them neatly into a bowl on the coffee table - phone, keys, wallet, cigarettes - cigarettes? Her cigarettes look different. She picks up the pack and stares at it. There’s a phone number written across it, the name NAT scrawled above it in large block print, and underlined twice. Natalie? Where did Natalie even get a Sharpie? She grins. Maybe her night wasn’t so bad after all. She grabs her phone - it’s late, but Phil’s probably still awake.
    
    
    To Phil Coulson: got a number. :)
    
    From Phil Coulson: Lunch tomorrow, my office. Need details.


	2. PHIL : The one where Phil meets a boy.

Phil raises his head from his desk when his door opens, but he’s not surprised, because he can smell the Thai takeout from several feet away. Maria Hill shoves the door closed with her foot and drops down into his couch, starting to unpack the styrofoam containers on a corner of Phil’s desk.

“Watch those folders. And tell me about your mystery girl.”

“Well, she’s mostly...a mystery? She’s an actress, stunts mostly, trying to quit smoking, and her name is Natalie.” Maria recites, shoving Phil’s folders away in a manner that makes him cringe. That is really no way to treat important paperwork, and he knows Maria would never shove her own folders that way.

“And?“ he prompts.

“And...that’s all I know.”

“Maria, you are terrible at this.”

“Yes, I know, but I have her number.” Maria says, her mouth already full of noodles.

“And you’ve called her.” Phil asks, leaning over to retrieve his own container of food.

“I...texted her?”

“ _Maria_.” Phil tries to convey his disappointment at his friend’s dating etiquette through his eyebrows, but he probably just looks constipated.  

“And you’re much better at this?” Maria accuses. She knows his dating history of the past several years. It is...sparse.

“For your information, I have a date tonight.” he counters.

“What, really? Where did you find him?”

“The internet, and if you say anything about that, I will give you absolutely no details tomorrow. And I’m calling in that favour you owe me.” Phil says, handing her a folder full of paperwork.

“What’s this?”

“Seventy four backdated requisition forms for armour and transport for my last surprise mission. They have to be filled out by 10am tomorrow.”

“I only owed you fifty two forms at the last count. What if I have a date tonight too?”

“ _Mariaaa_. C’mon.” Phil pleads.

Maria snickers, but returns to devouring her meal. She’s in far too good a mood today to really complain too much, he thinks. “Tomorrow, details in my office. You bring lunch.”

\---

Phil leaves work at 7pm, for the first time in years. He considers changing out of his suit, but decides against it at the last moment - it is what he’s most comfortable in, after all. The bar is a fairly upscale one; he won’t look out of place.

The man he thinks is his date is at the far end of the bar, looking nervous, and Phil smiles. He doesn’t look quite like the pictures he’s seen, but Phil thinks he likes him better in person - he looks rougher and more angular, full of kinetic energy, and he likes the way the man’s t-shirt skims his shoulders. Phil’s feeling pretty optimistic. Maybe he’ll have a good story for Maria Hill, after all.

“Are you Gabriel?” he asks the man leaning anxiously on the counter.

“I’d like to be,” the man smirks, “But no, I’m not.”

“My apologies,” Phil says, and tries not to let the disappointment cloud his face.

Gabriel does arrive, five minutes late. He is tall, muscular, handsome, talkative, and utterly, reprehensibly, dull. Phil buys him a drink, and debates whether he even wants to transition to dinner. Gabriel excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Phil sneaks another glance at the man at the far end of the bar. He can’t help comparing the two - Gabriel is better looking, certainly, but the other man looks like he actually has a personality. The man looks up, meets Phil’s eyes and smiles, and Phil turns away quickly, ducking back down to stare at his drink. He pokes at the ice dejectedly.

After fifteen minutes pass, and Gabriel has not emerged from the bathroom, the situation is quite clear to Phil. He is more disappointed at his date’s lack of finesse than at being abandoned so rudely - really, do people even still sneak out the back these days? He throws back the rest of his drink inelegantly, wincing as the whiskey stings its way down his throat, the ice burning his lips.

“Can I buy you another?” Phil hears, and lowers his glass to see the man from the bar holding his own empty glass. He nods, a bit stunned.

“Was that scotch?”

“Um, yeah?” Phil stutters, and the man leans over the counter and whispers to the bartender.

“Hey, I’m Clint.” Clint says, offering his hand.

“Phil?” Phil says. “Um, Phil, I mean.” he answers, looking for an elegant cover. “Phil Campbell.”

“Who’s the douchebag?” Clint asks, casually gesturing at the bathroom.

“My date. I guess he didn’t find me all that interesting.” Phil shrugs, self effacingly.

“Pshaw. Well, I got stood up too. Just a friend. She was waiting to hear from someone and decided to ditch me. But y’know, I saw you and you looked interesting enough...and a bit abandoned.” Clint grins.

“Is this a pity drink?” Phil sips the glass that Clint hands him. It’s really good scotch, better than what he was initially drinking, and he’s surprised.

“Only if you want it to be.” Clint says, and Phil realizes that the other man is standing far into his personal space, their arms already brushing. He feels nervous, which is dumb, because _hellooo_ , he’s a super secret agent and he can kill a man with a binder clip and a rubber band ball(separately, or individually) and he is certainly not someone who gets fazed by a pretty face, although Clint’s face couldn’t be called pretty by any stretch of the imagination. It’s an fascinating face. Handsome. One he could look at for hours.

“Um, no. I don’t want this to be a pity drink?” he recovers, a bit slowly, and Phil Coulson rolls his eyes at Phil Campbell, because he’s being real smooth here.

“Good, because I think you’re interesting.”

“I’m not. I’m an accountant.” Phil answers, slipping easily into his simplest, if not his most elegant, cover identity.

“Do you have an apartment? With a bed in it?”

“Yes? Two blocks away, actually?”

“Well, I find that _very_ interesting.” Clint’s smile is borderline predatory, and Phil does not mind at all as the younger man completely invades his personal space to whisper in his ear, “Finish your drink, Phil, let’s get out of here.”

\---

Phil never really thought he’d enjoy getting bossed around so much, but Clint is kissing him the moment they step outside the bar, right there on the sidewalk. He is warm, and tastes like whiskey, and the short rough stubble of his face scratches at Phil’s face and he is so horribly turned on by it, he’s frankly amazed at himself. Clint’s tongue is invasive, aggressive, plundering, and Phil willingly gives in, because his brain has apparently completely shorted out and doesn’t appear to have any intention of resetting that circuit tonight. Way to go, super secret agent spy man, his brain congratulates him, a bit sarcastically, but he already instinctually knows that the only threat Clint is, is the threat of a delicious man breaking his seven year dry spell.

Clint can’t keep his hands off Phil on the short walk to the apartment, and Phil is off balance. He feels like a completely different person - he’s a grown man, past his fortieth birthday for goodness sake, and now he’s grinding up against a stranger under a New York streetlight? Phil takes several tries to get his key in the building’s door, hearing Clint chuckle behind him, the other man’s hands already sliding down the front of Phil’s pants. “Clint. Two more minutes.” he demands, and the warm hands disappear, and Phil misses them already.

Phil leads the way to his first floor apartment, scanning his thumb at his door, and fumbles with the regular deadbolt again, cursing it for every second it keeps Clint’s hands off him.

“I didn’t know accountants had biometric locks on their apartment doors.” Clint comments.

“I work on military contracts. Er, aerospace stuff.” Phil mumbles, kicking the door closed, but Clint is already yanking off his tie for him, and that is just about the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

Clint gets tired of unbuttoning Phil’s shirt, and moves on to his pants, diving at them so forcefully that Phil finds himself awkwardly tossed over his couch, his belt quickly undone and Clint’s nimble hands going straight for his - “Oh god, Clint. You do not waste any time, do you?” Phil gasps.

“Mrfh.” Clint says, and Phil’s world turns blindingly bright.


	3. CLINT and MARIA: the one where Clint and Maria get called gorgeous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should apologize for the comedy sex routine, but I've never been one for writing overwrought, passionate sex scenes. So...I'm sorry, but I'm not really sorry.

“Clint. Clint. I have to tell you - “ Phil stammers.

“Mrrrrfh. Mrf,” the top of Clint’s head answers.

“I - I haven’t done this in a while.” Phil tries to explain, because he is _definitely_ going to embarrass himself in the next few seconds.

“Mrf?” Clint disgorges Phil from his mouth for a second -

“I meant - shit.“ - and Phil manages to unintentionally - but frankly, he _did warn him_ \- ejaculate all over Clint’s face.

“Ow,” Clint says, blinking semen out of his left eye a bit frantically, but he is already trying to repress a giant grin.

“Oh, fuck,  I’m so sorry.” Phil staggers to his bathroom for a towel, and promptly wipes Clint up, even though Clint is already doubled up with laughter, his left eye squinting uncomfortably.

“Phil. It’s fine. Let me go wash my eye out, and then we can continue this, okay?” Clint gasps, still giggling, dashing for the bathroom.

Phil continues apologizing. He apologizes once with words, profusely. He apologizes twice by swallowing, with as much dignity as he can muster, for being a middle aged man still wearing most of his clothing and acting completely besotted over a stranger he met at a bar. He apologizes for the third time by making sure that his round two lasts significantly longer than his previously embarrassing - but kind of cute, Clint thinks - two minutes and forty two seconds.

“You’re gorgeous.” Phil whispers into Clint’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to his left bicep, and oh, it was a very, _very_ nice bicep. ”Didn’t think I’d be your type.”

“What? Good looking? Stylish? Competent?” Clint laughs, turning to face Phil.

“You don’t know I’m competent.” Phil squints, but he’s still smiling.

“I just know. There’s something about the way you move. You’re probably a black belt in something.” Clint says, and he means it. There is something irrepressibly entrancing in the way Phil moves, like there’s something else under his skin, something threatening, and fast and markedly competent under his smartly tailored suit.

“I - I don’t really do this, just so you know.” Phil mutters, staring up at his ceiling, Clint now splayed out across him, still mostly clothed, his pants agape.

Clint...well, Clint does do this. All the time. Weekly, frequently. But this man - Phil - feels a little different, a bit more stable, a bit more like someone Clint actually wants to strive to impress. He can’t quite explain it, it’s a feeling, just an instinct that this one might actually be worth his time. Clint has always had good instincts, and he figures that this isn’t the time to stop trusting them.

“I promise, I’ll still respect you in the morning,” Clint promises, and he thinks he actually means that.

“Morning?” Phil smiles, a bit hopeful, and Clint leaps out of bed because that little note of hope in Phil's voice makes his heart pound so hard he's certain the other man can feel it.

“Er, yeah, sorry. I have to work tomorrow,” Clint stammers. Oh boy, he could really _like_ this one.

“Can I give you my number?” Phil asks, watching Clint straighten himself up, and Clint’s heart jumps a bit and he nods - perhaps a bit too eagerly.

Phil hands him a piece of paper, scrawled and torn off a notepad by his bed. “I’ll call you.” Clint says, with a wink(and also because really, his eye still hurts and it feels good to keep it shut briefly). As he strolls out of Phil’s apartment, he really thinks that he will.
    
    
    to tashaface: OMG
    
    from tashaface: ?

\---

Maria mostly finishes the paperwork she’d agreed to do for Phil at 11pm, shuts her door, and bars it with a chair, before she dials the number.

“Natalie? It’s Maria. I’m really sorry I couldn’t make it today. I got a ton of work dropped on my lap at the last minute.” she says, replicating Phil’s signature perfectly on his last backdated requisition form.

“No worries, darling. My work schedule is kinda erratic too, I understand.” Natalie’s voice is light and feels like honey.

“Right, you’re a stuntwoman. So, what can I see you in? Can I Google you?” Maria jokes.

Natalie laughs. “Sure. Natalie Rushman. Tell me if my IMDB profile is awful.”

“Huh, you’ve modelled in Tokyo.” Maria taps on her keyboard, quickly pulling up several startlingly attractive images of Natalie in a public search engine.

“It was okay. The food was amazing, though.” Maria can practically hear Natalie’s modest shrug.

“This is when I ask you if you’d like to get sushi with me, right?” Maria is a super secret agent, and she’s very smart. She can’t ignore blatant openings like that.

“I know a place in Bushwick. Small dive, but I promise you it’s good. Tomorrow evening?” Natalie responds immediately.

Maria glances at her calendar. Tomorrow is not entirely impossible. ”8pm?”

“I’ll text you the address.” Natalie’s voice is a smooth purr and Maria can’t help smiling widely, comforted only by the fact that no one can see it. She hears a clanging on the other side of the line and a hasty “Have to go, see you there, gorgeous.”

Maria remains staring at her phone for a while, as the call ends. Okay, she has a date. With a stunning and fascinating woman, who used to model in Tokyo. Who just called her gorgeous. Maria doesn’t have low self esteem - she knows she’s pretty, and she can clean up well enough to qualify into several definitions of beautiful. But there’s just something in Natalie’s voice that makes it special, like she _means_ it, even when her voice is light and flippant. Storytime with Phil after her date is going to be _great_.
    
    
    from Natalie: bogart and moore. right off morgan on the L line. 
    
    from Natalie: sushi shack, can’t miss the sign. 
    
    to Natalie: can’t wait. see you there. :)
    
    
    to Phil Coulson: scored a date tomorrow. sushi, even.
    
    from Phil Coulson: Congrats. 
    
    from Phil Coulson: Not to one up you, but I just had the most amazing sex of my life, ever.
    
    to Phil Coulson: okay, tmi. internet boy?
    
    from Phil Coulson: Nope. 
    
    to Phil Coulson: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 


	4. CLINT: The one where Clint deals with last night.

Clint tries to look sullen as Natasha opens the door for him, but he can’t bury the gigantic grin on his face. He wants to spill out the details of his evening(well, not all the details), but Natasha looks a bit distracted, so out of respect for Her Royal Grumpiness, he decides to take a different route.

“I can’t believe you stood me up, Tasha.” he complains.

“I stand you up all the time. Besides, you got laid.” Natasha says, looking down at her phone.

Clint frowns. “How can you tell?”

Natasha sniffs the air pointedly. “Can you even smell yourself? You smell like sweat and balls. Like sweaty balls. And what’s wrong with your eye?”

“I’m tired, I’ve been rubbing it. Are you even going to ask about my night?” Clint sighs. Conversations with Natasha always derail into interrogations.

“Why?” she asks. obviously more interested with her phone than with his night.

“I met a guy.”

“Yeah, and you fucked him. What’s new?”

“I think that maybe I want to see him again?”

“Huh.” Natasha looks at him suspiciously.

“I mean, it’s nothing. He’s an accountant, total suit, older than me, but I don’t know. There’s _something_ there. You know.” Clint flaps his hands around trying to get Natasha to visualize what he’s trying inadequately to explain with words. His hands are not much more eloquent, though.

“Okay. And...?”

“How do I ask someone out on a date? The classy way. He’s kind of a classy guy.”

“Clint, you’re _adorable_.” Natasha says, but she does explain the basic concept.
    
    
    to phil (hot accountant): are you busy at 8pm tomorrow?
    
    from phil (hot accountant): I can make myself available.
    
    from phil (hot accountant): If you’re planning on asking me out.
    
    to phil (hot accountant): great. i’ll come by at 8. it’s a surprise.
    
    from phil (hot accountant): Looking forward to it. :)

Clint drags himself back to his quarters, yawning, and promptly falls asleep, a serious, and strangely compelling, man in a suit floating around his hazy thoughts right before he fades out. He does not dream, just sleeps a deservedly sound sleep, the sort that promises one less cup of coffee the next morning. He is woken by his phone chirping, and scrambles for it, hoping it is Phil.

Unfortunately, it is not, and it is 10:30 am, four hours past his usual alarm.
    
    
    from hill the pill: you missed morning training.
    
    from hill the pill: my office now or i will send an team of jr agents to drag you from quarters.
    
    to hill the pill: sorry, boss. i got laid. real tired. slept in.
    
    from hill the pill: my office. NOW.
    

\---

“Barton, I need you today. Small assignment, local, some small arms smuggling activity in the Bronx.” Maria Hill commands, waving Clint in. He’s wearing dark sunglasses, which is odd since they’re indoors, but Clint Barton has a reputation for being odd.

“Will it be over by 8, Agent Hill?”

“Very likely, but don’t take my word for it. Why, got a hot date?” she jokes, which is strange to Clint because Agent Maria Hill does not joke.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Really? An actual, scheduled, planned sort of date?” She looks up at him quizzically.

Clint sighs. There’s no reason his handler needs to know that much about his sex life, or his long and storied series of one night stands, but it’s probably in his personnel file anyway. “Yes, ma’am.”

Hill grins. “I will do my best to get you out of the mission by 7:30. I have somewhere to be too.”

The mission is simple, a small gang of mutants in a small warehouse with a small weapons cache. Clint only needs to shoot one smoke arrow, and cover the rest of his team, who are handling the confiscation process and corresponding arrests with the NYPD.

“The third windowpane from the left is already broken, Barton. Take the shot.” Hill’s voice commands in his ear.

Clint squints, his left eye is still a bit raw from last night’s activities, but he focuses, and - his phone vibrates, and oh, that might be Phil, he thinks - and he shoots - the arrow shatters the glass in the _second_ windowpane from the left. Two inches to the right of the _third_ windowpane from the left. He curses; it’s the worst shot he’s made in over a decade. No one says anything, so he tries to shrug it off. The warehouse fills with smoke, and he figures that the job is done anyway, even if he’d done it two inches to the right. Well, he thinks, if a certain handsome man in a delicious suit had also aimed two inches to the right in the first place, his arrow would have been plenty accurate.

The warehouse is quickly cleared then, the rest of the team speedily taking the hostiles into custody. He bounces down to Agent Hill, who is already busy directing various groups of junior agents around the warehouse to secure an array of miscellaneous crates.

“Barton.” Hill says, rudely slapping a pair of cuffs around the last sullen looking warehouse worker. She stares at him suspiciously. “I said third windowpane from the left.” She looks up at his face, narrowing her eyes at it. Shit, he took off his sunglasses earlier. “Barton, what the fuck is wrong with your eye?” Hill demands.

“Nothing, I just got some...soap in it.” Clint says, as nonchalantly as he can manage.

“It’s pink! Do you have conjunctivitis?”

“It’s fine, just needs to wash out.”

“Barton. Are you blushing?” Hill frowns at him.

“It’s very warm in here.”

“We’re standing outside. It’s September. You don’t even have sleeves.” She points out.

Hill glances at her watch. It’s 7:00pm. One hour to be in Bushwick, she thinks. “Shit. Um, you can debrief tomorrow morning. Dismissed, Barton. Please go to Medical about your eye.”

Barton is a bit confused - Hill is a stickler for prompt paperwork and even prompter field reports. And he did just miss a shot - only by two inches, and it did the job anyway - but he’s not called Hawkeye because he likes birds a lot. But, he isn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He has a date with a very classy man, and he’s most certainly not going to go to Medical about his eye.


	5. MARIA: the one where Maria goes on a date

Maria Hill finishes directing cleanup of the scene by 7:30pm, most likely a record. She curses herself for not having planned better - she’s only three subway stops from the restaurant, but she won’t have time to return to base or her apartment before meeting Natalie. It’s okay, she’s a super secret agent type, she can improvise. At 7:40pm, after a nearby vintage store and a blindingly quick trip to a drugstore for wet wipes and a vague attempt at makeup, Maria Hill stashes her field uniform in one of her many personal hidey hole lockers in the city and hops on the subway. She’s wearing a black crocheted dress now, maybe a bit more hippie-ish than she’d prefer, but it looks nice enough for an eight minute shopping job.  She’s carrying an actual purse, and even though there’s still a handgun, a tazer and a pair of handcuffs at the bottom of it, she doesn’t quite feel like herself, like she’s undercover as someone more...normal. Someone that goes on normal dates with normal girls to normal sushi restaurants. She could get used to this.

Natalie is already there when she finds the restaurant. Natalie’s eyes are trained on the door, and she is not thumbing at her cellphone or trying to look bored. Maria appreciates that, appreciates the fact that Natalie obviously wants to look like she’s waiting. Natalie lights up when Maria steps in - at 8:05pm - and _wow_ , Maria thinks, Natalie is really beautiful.

“I’m sorry, I’m never late, but my timing was all sorts of off today.” Maria apologizes.

“You don’t look like someone who’s ever late.” Natalie says lightly.

“I know, I’m sorry. I was worried about...someone on my team.”

“I’m just kidding, Maria. The subway can be unpredictable.” Natalie assures her, and they sit down, hungrily reviewing out the menu. Maria scopes out the place, but Natalie has picked a table with a clear view of the room and sightlines to all entrances and exits. She settles in, comfortable.

Natalie likes unagi, hamachi, and tuna. Maria likes the more adventurous options - happily diving into monkfish liver, sea urchin and salmon roe. They are both hungry, and they devour plates of food. Maria appreciates that Natalie eats.

“So how did you get into acting?” Maria asks.

Natalie Rushman shrugs, and Natasha Romanov feels like being honest this time - well, as honest as she can be.

“I used to be a dancer, back in Russia. Ballet. We sort of had dance training camps? I was taken away from my family at a young age and I don’t remember much about it; I barely remember even having a childhood at all. I’ve just been a...ballet dancer all my life.” Natalie starts, and her words are definitely lies, but couched in the truth.

“Do you still dance?”

“No. I sort of...defected. A friend got me into stunt work, and turns out I’m pretty good at it. It pays the bills.”

They talk easily, like old friends. Maria’s honest about a few things, like the fact that she has two sisters and three brothers, and the fact that she loves her Netflix subscription more than many things in the world. Natalie talks about her career, chatting excitedly about difficult shoots and complex jobs that she’s performed that make Maria laugh - Natalie would probably fit right in at SHIELD, she thinks.

Maria insists on paying this time, strongly implying that Natalie can get the next - and oh _please, let there be a next_ \- and they walk out into the cool night.

“So. I had a really good time.” Natalie says, standing on the sidewalk, smiling shyly. Shy is a bit of an odd look on her otherwise brazenly confident face, but Maria finds it charming.

“Me too. Do you want to...maybe do this again?”

“Yes.” Natalie grins. “Hey, where do you live?”

“Near the bridge.”

“I’m probably just a couple stops off then. C’mon, I’ll walk you home.” Natalie bumps her shoulder against Maria’s. They chat easily, shoulder to shoulder on the way to the subway. On the train, Natalie slips her hand into hers, and Maria squeezes it gently back.

\---

“This is my place.” Maria says, stopping in front of a small brownstone. “Do you...um, you want to come in for coffee?”

“I really like you, Maria,” Natalie looks a bit hesitant, but she’s still holding Maria’s hand. “ - but I’d like to take this slow?”

“Would you like to come in for _tea_ , then?” Maria is feeling strangely brave. She even tries to wiggle her eyebrows. Comedy has never been her strong suit, but she’s willing to try, if being silly will make Natalie laugh.

Natalie does laugh, the sound carrying brilliantly through the cool night air. “Yeah, I like tea.”

“Wait,” Maria says, before opening her door for Natalie. “It’s really messy. Give me five minutes.” she scans her thumb over the biometric scanner, which Natalie eyes suspiciously. “I work on military contracts,” Maria explains, and slips into her apartment smoothly, closing the door behind her. She scans the room quickly. It’s a small apartment, but she works from home sometimes, and she was not expecting to have to clean up her SHIELD detritus this quickly. She has gone many, many years without bringing a date home, which meant that statistically speaking, the chances of doing so tonight were very low. Perhaps Maria relies on statistics too much for her own good. A large pile of SHIELD paperwork is dislodged from her coffee table into her laundry cabinet. The knife magneted under her kitchen counter is returned to its old spot in her kitchen knife block. An out of place SHIELD paperweight goes into the trash - those were really ugly, anyway. She fills her kettle with cool water, lights the stove, and opens the door again to Natalie’s curious face.

“Okay, I cleaned. Sorry.” Maria mumbles.

“It looks...clean.” Natalie says, hanging her jacket on the coat rack next to the door.

“Like I said, I cleaned.” Maria shrugs, heading back to the kitchen. She notices Natalie’s eyes taking in her space, alert, but relaxed. Maria opens the cupboard, and grabs two teacups, discretely shoving the one SHIELD logo mug she has towards the back. She roots around in her tea drawer. “Green, English Breakfast, Earl Grey?”  

“Earl Grey, please.” Natalie answers.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Of course.”

They take their tea the same way(milk, and lots of sugar), and Maria tries not to let her brain consider that another measure of compatibility. For goodness sake, Maria, she thinks, try not to make U-Haul reservations just yet. Maria drinks her tea slowly, trying to drag the night out a little longer, but Natalie seems pleased to sip her tea delicately, so she’s pretty sure they’re on the same page.

They drink tea and talk - Natalie likes classical music, Natalie likes kittens, Natalie likes really bad action movies - until they’ve drained a whole gallon of tea between them and Maria has apologized for having to pee every ten minutes.

“Can I kiss you goodnight?” Natalie asks at the door, and Maria answers by tugging the other woman towards her, tangling their lips together.

“I didn’t think you’d be quite so...romantic.” Maria mumbles, detaching herself for a brief second.

“I’m not,” Natalie whispers back softly, ”I just think that this could be a good thing.”

Maria swallows nervously. “I should probably tell you now that I...have a lot of secrets.”

“Me too.” Natalie says, and there’s something in her eyes that makes Maria know that Natalie’s not just saying so to be nice.

“We can start with the small ones. I'll start. You now know that I'm capable of smiling. Laughing, even.” Maria offers.

"That's a secret?" Natalie says.

"It is to a lot of people." Maria chuckles. 

“We can start with another date. Dinner tomorrow?” Natalie suggests.

“I might have to work.” Maria apologizes.

“Pencil me in then.” Natalie says, slipping out gracefully, blowing Maria a kiss from down the hall.
    
    
    to Phil Coulson: phillll, i think i really like this girl.
    
    to Phil Coulson: are you already asleep?
    
    to Phil Coulson: are you getting laid again?
    
    to Phil Coulson: oh my god, you’re totally getting laid.
    
    to Phil Coulson: you motherfucker.
    


	6. CLINT: the one where Clint invites himself over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeep, two chapters in one day. :) This chapter is short, and meant to pair with the last one, anyway. It's just so I can get to a good stopping point for the weekend, before resuming on Monday(for a week where all the fun stuff happens!)
> 
> Thank you for all your comments - they make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Clint Barton also achieves a personal record - he gets in and out of the grocery store and on the subway in exactly 30 minutes, and he rings the buzzer for Phil Coulson’s apartment at exactly 8:00pm.

“You’re exactly on time.” Phil says, opening the front door for him, and taking on the large paper bag that Clint shoves in his arms. Phil is still in a suit, and looks like he probably just got home from work. Possibly like he just _ran_ home from work.

“Did you think I’d be late?” Clint mutters, rebalancing his pile of bags.

“I thought that maybe you had a more...impulsive notion of time.” Phil shrugs.

“Well, I thought you’d have an apartment with a doorman, so maybe we’re wrong about each other.” Clint snarks back.

Phil laughs. “Are you planning on cooking for me?” he asks, peering down into the bag. It looks like raw chicken, salad fixings and a gigantic chunk of bread.

“Yes, sir.”

“Wow. I don’t think anyone’s ever cooked for me before?”

“Really? You mean you don’t have men - and women - knocking down your door?”

“I - I work a lot.” Phil mutters, somewhat bashfully.

“Right. Accountant. No worries, I work a lot too.”

“What do you do again?” Phil asks, pushing open his door.

“I never told you the first time.” Clint cycles through his list of undercover occupations, finally picking out the simplest. “Construction.”

“That explains your arms.” Phil says, evaluating Clint appreciatively..

“You were looking at my arms?” Clint grins, pulling items out of the paper bags, flexing as he draws out a block of parmesan cheese(it’s only a quarter pound; it’s not heavy at all).

“No, I was looking at your _everything_.” Phil flashes him a wicked smile that Clint didn’t honestly think was even possible out of the serious(ish) man.

Phil leaves Clint to unpack the groceries and starts to shrug off his suit jacket, prepared to hang it up neatly in the closet in his room. He is surprised when Clint approaches behind him, practically sneaking up on him.

“You’re not the type who knocks, are you?” Phil says.

Clint glances over to Phil’s bed. “Your sheets probably still smell like me, I think that excuses me from knocking.”

“And here I was, thinking that I was going to get to know you over dinner.” Phil says lightly, turning around to run his hands over Clint’s chest.

“You will. The chicken has thirty minutes in the oven. Right now, would you like to get to know how I look with my pants off?”

Phil pretends to look up and down at Clint appraisingly. “Yes, I would.”

This time, Clint takes off his clothing slowly, precisely, stretching as he stands in front of Phil. He struts over in only his boxer briefs to Phil, revelling in the way the man can’t take his eyes off him, as if he were some sort of slightly more scarred Adonis. He reaches over, unbuttons Phil’s shirt slowly, humming languidly, as if he could take all day - which he totally would, if Agent Hill wouldn’t have his ass for missing another morning training session the next day.

He tosses Phil’s shirt aside, pulls his undershirt off a bit more roughly. Phil steps out of his pants, and Clint does not waste any time in getting them both entirely undressed. Phil is _gorgeous_ , Clint thinks, and he hides it all under those admittedly very nice suits, but nothing compares to the man naked, all tight muscles and delicious chest hair and freckled skin. Phil has a slight moment of panic then - no one has seen him naked, even shirtless, for almost seven years. Except for SHIELD Medical, and obviously, none of that was the kind of fun that _this_ is.

“You don’t look like an accountant.” Clint says, tracing his finger over an old scar on Phil’s side. Mission gone bad in Prague, Phil thinks, but that one should look enough like a biking injury to pass.

“Are you comparing me to all the other accountants in your life?” he says, diverting the topic.

“Yeah, it’s a thing I have. I’m really into accountants. I find them incredibly sexy, the way they balance budgets and stuff.”

“I fill out paperwork like a fiend, then.”

“Oh yes, tell me more.” Clint mumbles, his face nibbling into Phil’s neck.

“I’m a miracle with spreadsheets.”

“Mmmm. I’ll spread your sheets.”

“Er, I’m exceptionally thorough with business mileage reimbursement rates?” Phil adds, and Clint giggles and kisses him hard on the mouth to make him shut up.

“You can’t come in my eye again, Phil, I got in trouble at work.” Clint whispers, falling back into the bed, pulling Phil along with him.

“Oh god, why?” Phil asks, alarmed, and Clint’s hormone addled brain searches for a good excuse.

“Er, no biggie. I do some precise machining work.” It not entirely a lie - a recurve bow is a precise machine, especially in his hands, but Phil has already ducked down and is planting soft kisses on his inner thigh, and Clint is not a statistician either, but he can plot an exponential line graph well enough to figure out what’s getting kissed next, so he stops spending brain cells on forming a perfect cover story.

In the end, it is the smoke alarm that gets them out of bed. The chicken is burnt; Clint apologizes profusely as Phil waves away the smoke from the alarm sensors, laughing in a pair of exceptionally dorky Captain America boxers. Clint is sheepish as he serves Phil a tomato-mozzarella salad with garlic bread on the side, but he correctly figures that Phil could really care less about burnt chicken.

Clint stays the night. His phone buzzes several times, as does Phil’s; they ignore it.

\---

Natasha leaves Maria’s apartment skipping, and catches herself one block down the street, practically grinding to a stop. Oh _come on_ , you are Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, you kill bad people in their sleep for a living, you don’t skip - _christ, what is she’s doing_ , she thinks. She’d seen Maria as a challenge, sure, a fun diversion, but she didn’t expect the actual challenge would be actually liking the woman. Maria is a hard woman, difficult, angular, strong, but there is softness and grace in her too, and Natasha is stunned and fascinated by the contradictions.

She’s never really met anyone quite like Maria before.
    
    
    to hawkeye: we need to talk.
    
    to hawkeye: seriously, i met this amazing woman.
    
    to hawkeye: goddammit clint, are you getting laid?
    
    to hawkeye: are you getting laid AND sleeping over at his place???!!!
    
    to hawkeye: barton, you’re an asshole!!
    


	7. PHIL: the one where Phil and Maria are twitterpated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't thank you guys enough for following along with this ridiculousness! Thank you for all your comments - I appreciate every one! I promise, things will start falling apart very soon, but there is one more chapter of cuteness before all that.

Phil is humming softly to himself, as he drifts into the monotony of backlogged mission reports and miscellaneous paperwork. The engineering department has invented something that the Black Widow likes using, some sort of fancy electrocution bracelet, and now he has to find the special weapons requisition form, and the damn thing is five pages long.

“Coulson, are you humming?” Maria says, sticking her head through his slightly ajar door.

Phil squints at Maria. She looks different somehow, lighter, softer....girlier?

“Hill, are you wearing mascara?” he asks.  
“Don’t change the subject. You’re humming ‘All You Need is Love’ and I didn’t even know you liked The Beatles.”  
“Are you also wearing eyeliner? It’s kind of smudgy.” Phil gestures in the general direction of Maria’s face.

Maria Hill frowns at him first, and then breaks out into a huge smile, shutting the door firmly behind her. “Oh, it’s from last night. I haven’t been able to get it off.” she says, dropping a cafeteria sandwich on his desk(tuna, wheat bread, limp, damp). “Sorry, I’m starving. Couldn’t wait to go get takeout.”

“So...” Phil starts.  
“Sooo...” Maria follows. She is attempting, and completely failing, to look innocent. Maria Hill has never looked innocent.  
“Yeah.” Phil can figure Maria out. The woman has a well earned reputation for being an serious, impassive, uncrackable nut. Now, she’s sitting in his office grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Given, he’s also quite happy right now; he didn’t think the concept of afterglow had particularly long lasting effects, but he’s definitely still riding on the leftover euphoria of last night.  
“Yeeeah.” Maria responds. She can figure Phil out just fine too.

“It’s not what you think” Maria continues, “We only just kissed...she’s just...fascinating. She’s beautiful, smart, funny...“ She clears her throat. “We’re taking it slow,” she says.  
Phil shifts in his chair and tries to subtly adjust his pants, feeling a little uncomfortable just _thinking_ of Clint in front of Maria. “Well, my date went well too. He’s gorgeous and his - um. We’re _not_ taking it slow.”  
“Coulson, you dog,” Maria laughs, tossing a pen at him. Phil catches it out of the air and winks at her. He digs around in his desk and hands her a small stout glass jar, a compact mirror and a stack of cotton pads.

“What is this?” Maria says, peeling the plastic seal of the jar open.  
“It’s cold cream. You can use it to remove mascara. And other eye makeup. Haven’t you done a bunch of undercover work?” Phil explains.  
“You asshole. Other people do my makeup.” Maria grumbles sheepishly, but she does settle in on the couch, and proceed to wipe at her eyes. “Why do you have makeup remover anyway?”  
“The Black Widow goes through mounds of it. I requisitioned a crate of it last month and it’s still under my desk.”  
“Huh. Can I keep this?” she asks, looking the jar over.  
“Yes, Maria. You shouldn’t share makeup.” Phil scolds.

Maria scowls at him, and he laughs at her. They settle into a quiet meal, Maria savagely devouring her sandwich(ham and cheese, too much mayo), and Phil a little more restrained. It’s really not an appealing sandwich.

“So um, how do SHIELD agents date, anyway? I haven’t really tried since - you know, _you_ , and that was an unmitigated disaster.” Maria asks, swallowing the last bite of her sandwich.  
“You are welcome, by the way. I’m glad I could help you figure out your sexual identity.” Phil says, deadpan, and Maria rolls her eyes.  
“Well, I’m Phil Campbell, and I’m an accountant.” Phil continues, starting on his second half of his sandwich, which is still unappealing.  
“That’s probably a better cover than mine. You look like a boring accountant.” Maria picks at the lint on his well worn couch.  
“I don’t know, Maria.” Phil presses his fingers to his temples. ”We...lie? A lot.”  
“That sucks.” she mutters.  
“Enjoy it while it lasts, right?” Phil shrugs.  
“Oh god, Phil. I hope this lasts.”  
“How have we become a bunch of saps?” Phil complains, but he’s not really complaining.

“None of this leaves this room. Ever. I have an elite strike team to command, and a reputation as an ice cold bitch to uphold.” Maria sternly admonishes him, trying to rearrange her face into a frown as she leaves Phil’s office.

Phil tries to focus on his paperwork, but he can’t help drifting off into daydreams about the smooth curves of Clint’s back, the feel of his skin against - alright, Phil, paperwork, requisition forms, not the way Clint’s arms feel when they hold him down, pressing against his - special form 226b for external consultants, where is that one - Clint’s eyes, sparkling, piercing, and Phil could drown in them, goddammit, he is not going to get any work done if he can’t keep it together. He is Phil Coulson, secret agent, and he is a badass, and he will do this paperwork like a badass, and not a mooning, twitterpated, child.

His email dings.
    
    
    from: Nick Fury <nfury@shield.gov>
    to: Maria Hill <mhill@shield.gov>;
    Phil Coulson <pcoulson@shield.gov>; 
    Jasper Sitwell <jsitwell@shield.gov>; 
    Sharon Carter <scarter@shield.gov>
    
    Agents, 
    
    Your teams are to report for helicarrier duty for one month. 
    Taking off this Sunday morning at 0600. 
    Assignments on arrival. Thank you.
    
    

Phil sighs. He’ll just have to pack as much Clint as he can into the next few days - Clint’s rough face, Clint’s perfect hands, Clint’s smile, oh goodness, his smile. Phil forces himself back to his work, and his brain and heart goes unwillingly.

He is agonizing over a mission report(an unfortunate, if non-fatal, accident involving junior agents and a crocodile) when Maria slips back in, throwing herself on the couch in about as dramatic a fashion as he’s ever seen, which means that she’s actually just noticeably slouching.

“Ah, you got Fury’s email.” Phil anticipates.  
“Fury is trying to ruin my love life.” she complains, starting to ostrich under one of Phil’s ratty throw pillows. Well, that looks very odd, Phil thinks.  
“It’s just a month.” He tries to be reassuring.  
“What am I supposed to tell Natalie?”  
“Business trip?” Phil offers, “You used your standard “military contracts” cover, right?”  
“Of course. What are you telling your man?”  
“I am going with a field team to a remote South American mining company to evaluate it for long term financial sustainability.” he answers.  
“Wow, you’ve really thought this out.”  
“I...just want to keep him around.”  
“I’m really not sure that spinning elaborate cover stories is the way to do so, Phil.” Maria sighs, punching the poor throw pillow to emphasise her frustration.

Phil reaches for his phone. Maria pulls herself off his couch and heads dejectedly out of his office to wrangle her team for the month long stint on the helicarrier.
    
    
    to clint francis: Come out with me tonight? Bar near my place. 8
    from clint francis: see u there, gorgeous. send address.


	8. NATASHA, CLINT and MARIA:  The one where everyone tries to hide they’re a SHIELD agent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, one more chapter today, to come to a nice stopping point before the weekend. The next chapter - things start unraveling. :)

The scene in Maria’s apartment is chaotic when Natasha slips in, following Maria’s “Door’s open, come in!” invitation, which sounded more like an agonized yelp. There is something that looks like it might have been trying to be a pot roast on the stove, the remains of an badly diced onion next to the chopping board, and what appears to be an entire bag of wet flour coating part of the counter and the sink.

Maria is wearing an apron, which doesn't look right on her at all, even if it is a restrained and undecorated white apron. There is flour in her hair. And what looks like a piece of lettuce, or perhaps something formerly known as a green pepper.

“Wow,” Natasha says, amazed at the flurry of clearly incompetent activity emanating out of the other woman. “Your kitchen looks...used. Are you making me dinner?”

“Yes,” Maria grumbles dejectedly and throws open her freezer, pulling out a couple of red boxes with an expiry date still months away. “I’m making you microwaved lasagna, Natalie.”

Natasha looks around the kitchen again. Is that actually beef broth on the ceiling? “Oh, Maria.”

“Do you like Thai food? There’s a great place that delivers...” Maria continues, pulling out a batch of takeout menus from a drawer, looking like she’s desperately trying to salvage _something_.

“ _Mariaaa_.” Natasha starts, and then Maria immediately finds the smaller woman’s arms around her waist. “I can’t believe you tried to cook for me. _No one’s_ ever tried to cook for me before.” Natasha squeaks, planting kisses all over Maria’s neck and cheeks. It’s not entirely true, Clint cooks frequently - but context really matters.

Natasha pulls back, examining Maria’s stunned face. “Why do you have a black eye?” she asks, peering at Maria’s left eye.

Because Phil Coulson wanted to spar to rid himself of nervous energy, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you, so he punched me in the face, Maria thinks.

“Kickboxing class.” Maria says.

Natasha laughs. ”I should show you how to cover that up properly.”

“I don’t wear makeup much.” Maria mumbles, feeling self conscious, but Natasha is already pressing her up against the counter, kissing her hard, and softly, and warmly.

“Sandwiches.” Natasha says, and Maria looks back at her, confused.

“I thought we were making out?”

“We are, but I’m very hungry, and you apparently can’t cook.” Natasha mocks gently.

“There’s a great deli a couple blocks from here.” Maria offers, and pulls her back into another kiss.

Natasha helps to clean up the kitchen before they leave for sandwiches. The sink is clogged; Maria did not know that potato skins cannot go in the garbage disposal. Fortunately, she is much more competent with a pipe wrench.

\---

Clint leaps for his phone when Phil’s caller ID blinks on the screen.

“I’m leaving work a bit early, want me to pick you up on the way to the bar?” Phil begins, when the phone picks up.

“Er...” Clint says.

“You live in the Bronx, right?” Phil asks.

“I’ll meet you there.” Clint says firmly. No, he doesn’t actually live in the Bronx. He lives at SHIELD Central, in a set of incredibly bleak quarters, and sometimes the helicarrier, where he gets upgraded to slightly newer, but also depressing, quarters.

“Hey, you okay?” Phil presses, his voice concerned.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that...um, my place is a mess. And I have roommates. They’re assholes.“ To be fair, “roommates” means a few hundred SHIELD junior agents and miscellaneous SHIELD assets that haven’t the clearance to live off-base yet, but they _are_ all mostly assholes, Clint thinks. “I’ll meet you there, okay?” he insists.

\---

Maria and Natasha hold hands on the way to the deli.

They pass a group of young men that look like they’ve been recently disgorged from a bar. They smell like vodka and vomit and far too much cologne. They whistle like ill behaved wolves at Maria and Natasha. Maria rolls her eyes at them. Natasha scowls.

“Hey, baby, you should smile.” one of the men say, falling into step behind them.

“Ignore them, Nat.” Maria says, and Natasha walks stoically on, because she knows she can take them all out with her bare hands, but that would probably be quite awkward in front of Maria.

“I bet you’re a real firecracker in bed.” another chimes in.

“Ignore them. They’re just assholes.” Maria says, and Natasha does, because let’s face it, beating up a twenty one year old kid in front of Maria probably isn’t the classiest date-night move.

“You’re gonna look real good sucking my cock.” a third one hollers, and in her peripheral vision, she sees him step up and walk faster, reaching out for her arm, and she tenses up instinctively, ready to fight -

\- and Maria punches him in the face. Hard. He goes down with a loud crack, scrabbling at his nose.

“What the fuck, you crazy bitch!” one of the poor boy’s friends say.

“Ow, I think she broke my nose.” Nosebleed Boy cries.

“I’m gonna call the fucking cops!” another threatens, but he’s already backing up in a hurry, nearly tripping over his own shoes.

“Do you have anything else to say to my friend?” Maria starts, surprisingly calmly, but the group of boys are already running down the street, their bleeding friend frantically trying to keep pace behind them.

“Did you do that to impress me, Maria? Because I’m definitely impressed.” Natasha says, grinning happily. She grabs Maria’s hand to look at it. It looks fine; Maria obviously knows how to hit someone without much personal damage. “You have a killer right hook.” Natasha says.

“I guess those ...er - kickboxing classes - came in useful.” Maria mumbles, shaking her right hand.

Natasha insists on buying the sandwiches.

\---

“Wanna play a round of darts?” Phil asks, nodding at the open board at the other end of the bar.

“I love darts.” Clint exclaims, although he is a bit sad to disentangle his hand from Phil’s. They’ve had a really good dinner, gigantic burgers the size of Clint’s head, and Clint’s head is feeling pretty big right now, what with Phil sitting across the table and looking at him like he’s the only person in the world. The look also occasionally lapses into Phil looking at Clint like he’s a delicious piece of meat, but Clint finds the objectification completely acceptable. Phil is - ugh, Phil is amazing. He traces the curve of Phil’s chin hungrily, working his way up to the perfect wrinkles next to his blue eyes. He looks like a man that has laughed a lot, that has lived, that has stories that Clint wants to hear.

Right, darts.

Clint goes first. He focuses on a point about three inches from the middle, aims, and hits it. The next dart is aimed on the border of the dartboard. The third, just for fun, he aims at the wall.

“Hmm, I remember being better.” he says, shrugging sheepishly at Phil. Good job, Clint, he thinks to himself, you’re getting very good at this undercover boyfriend thing.

Phil barely hits the target once, and then hits the wall twice and Clint laughs. “This is not your game, is it?” Clint mocks.

“Frankly, I just like looking at your arms when you throw those things.” Phil says, dryly.

Clint makes a point of flexing a little more for the next round, and spends Phil’s next turn trying to distract him in the most scrumptious ways. Phil brings him his drinks, they play darts, and Clint laughs more than he’s ever laughed in years, and he drinks until he’s warm and happy, and he is so goddamn smitten with Phil, it’s _ridiculous_.

“Clint, you seem to get better at this the more you drink.” Phil whispers in his ear..

Clint glances at the dartboard. _Fuuuck_ , he thinks, looking at his three darts clustered right on the red dot, practically crowding each other out of the small space.

Phil’s darts surround his as well, barely off target. “You seem to get better too,” he answers Phil with a smirk. He presses his mouth to Phil hungrily - he can try to explain his awkwardly good aim later.

\---

Natalie is soft, and smells like honey and soap. Natalie is warm, her hair undone and gloriously red. Natalie is a chance at something good.

“I thought you wanted to take it slow,” Maria says.

“I’ll can take your shirt off very slowly, if you like.” Natalie whispers, and Maria happily complies with whatever the strong hands roaming all over her back want.

Natalie is graceful, gentle. Natalie is desire. Natalie is a promise. Natalie is hope.

 

They’re mostly undressed, when Natalie pulls back suddenly, her eyes a bit wild, if restrained.

“Is everything okay?” Maria asked - she can’t quite place the look in Natalie’s eyes, except she doesn’t like it and wants to kiss it away.

“I’ve never done this before.” Natalie says, her voice flat, her eyes distant.

Maria looks back at Natalie skeptically. “You’ve never had sex before?” she asks, taking in the gorgeous redhead in front of her. That just seemed...very unlikely.

“No. I mean, I’ve never had sex with someone - someone I’ve _liked_ before.” and the look in Natalie’s eyes is so foreign, so far away, so haunted, so _hurt_ , that Maria can’t do anything but pull her close and hold her.

“Oh, Nat.” she mutters into Natalie’s hair. Her own eyes ache with anger, and she tries to bury her own tears - goddammit, she _likes_ Natalie. Maria’s just angry at whoever managed to  fuck things up for Natalie.

“I feel really bad about this,” Natalie says, apologetically. “I- I really do want to. Just not...tonight.”

“My most frequent sexual partner of the past seven years is battery operated, bright blue, and in my nightstand. I can wait as long as you like.” Maria assures Natalie, pulling back to look at her. “You might have noticed, but I’m a little bit smitten with you. I’m not just trying to get you into bed, Nat, I’m trying to get you in my _life_.” Maria continues, and not a single word is a lie.

“Your mascara’s not waterproof.” Natalie smiles wryly, reaching up to wipe uselessly at Maria’s eyes. “My problems shouldn’t make you sad.”

“I’m not sad. I’m furious. You deserve good things, Nat.” Maria says.

“You can’t do anything about it. It’s fine.” Natalie says, nuzzling back under Maria’s chin.

Oh, but I _can_ , Maria thinks. Give me a name, she wants to say - give me many names, give me _all_ the names, and I will requisition a fucking quinjet - that’s a seven page form, filled in triplicate, by the way, but you’re really worth it - and I will hunt down and personally put a bullet in every person that has ever hurt you. But she can’t really, because she’s just Maria, not Agent Maria Hill now. She plants a gentle kiss on Natalie’s forehead. Natalie is silent, but relaxes, burrowing under the sheets and into Maria’s side.

“I’ll make you a cup of tea.” Maria, not Agent Maria Hill, says instead, pulling a black shirt over her head on the way out. She’d probably get fired if she tried to kill everyone that has ever been an asshole to Natalie anyway, but maybe then she could stop lying about her life.

When she returns, two hot mugs of tea in hand, Natalie has apparently dug out an old, ratty, Navy shirt from her closet, and Maria feels strangely warm and happy inside. Natalie just looks... _right_.

“Pajama pants are in the bottom drawer.” Maria says, even as Natalie pulls her over with surprisingly flexible bare feet.

“You were in the Navy?” Natalie asks, looking down at the words on her own chest.

“Er, yeah.” Maria says. Her life up until that point isn’t classified, at least.

“Well, that explains the face punching.” Natalie snickers. “How did you end up at a desk job after that?”

“Well, I got tired of face punching.” Maria offers lightly, and Natalie laughs, a deep hearty laugh that makes Maria feel like she’s home. Not literally, because she already is in her own apartment, but _home_.

They end the night on the couch, watching awful movies with Nicholas Cage in them(there was a marathon, for some reason) and snacking on previously frozen pizza rolls. “This is a date, so I baked them instead of just microwaving them, so they’re crispy.” Maria says, setting down the plate. “Nothing but the best for my Nat.” she continues, and Natalie giggles. _My_ Nat, Maria thinks. That sounds nice.

“Hey, I’m going to be gone for about a month. I meant to tell you earlier. I got a really great gig in Brazil - I leave Sunday.” Natalie says, leaning into Maria’s side, her toes tangled with Maria’s.

“Really?” Maria asks. Well, that’s convenient, she thinks. She might not even have to use her stupid cover excuse about the extremely long business trip.

“Some spy movie. I haven’t gotten full details from my agent.” Natalie sighs. “I’ll get paid a ton. We can still talk on the phone, though?”

“I’ll miss you.” Maria says, and means it. She thinks a bit, before she says the next thing, because it really is a little bit important. “I want you to meet my friends. I mean - come have dinner with me and my best friend. Saturday evening, before you leave?”

"Okay.” Natalie responds instantly, and Maria can hear her smile.


	9. NATASHA: The one where Clint and Natasha find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for putting up with 10,000 words of build up! :) As promised, shit will start hitting the fan now.

“Phil, you’re meeting Natalie tomorrow night.” Maria says, practically twirling into his office, except Maria Hill doesn’t twirl, so it is more of a graceless hop.

“I would love to finally meet this magical, sparkling fairy princess lady of yours, Maria, but I’m swamped.” Phil says, although what he actually means is that he plans on having Clint over all night, and completely intends on being utterly exhausted and bleary eyed when he has to report to the helicarrier for duty in the morning.

“Please, Phil? It’s important and I really like her. I’ll do anything.” Maria begs.

“Hmm.” Phil considers. He can have Clint over a little bit later, possibly. “Two hundred requisition forms.”

“That’s ridiculous. Fifty, and I’ll buy dinner.”

“One hundred. You were going to buy me dinner anyway.”

“Seventy five requisition forms, and I’ll be really nice when I meet your new mystery man.” Hill bargains.

“Deal. What time?”

“The reservation’s at 8pm. And er, could you not go...that much undercover?”

“What do you mean?” Phil frowns.

“You know - unassuming, boring, undercover accountant Phil? Try to be...a little bit interesting.“

Phil would feel insulted, but the look on Maria’s face is so hopeful, it is bordering on hilarious. “Wow, you’re really trying to impress this girl.” he says, grinning.

“Shut up, Coulson. I pick you up at your place at 1900.”

\---

Natasha thinks that she’s probably never spent quite this much time fixing up her makeup before. She’s cycled through several different looks, before settling on something fairly respectable - something between casual-girl-next-door and someone who does know how to put on mascara. She feels surprisingly nervous; she’s meeting Maria’s best friend! That’s a first step into...relationship stability, and oddly enough, she’s really looking forward to that. At some point, this relationship will fall apart under a mess of lies and secrets, she thinks, as they all do. But for now - now, it is good, it is very, very good, and Natasha plans on keeping it good for as long as she can manage.

She arrives five minutes early, easily spotting Maria through the large restaurant windows from several feet away. Maria is chatting animatedly with a man in a suit, older, slightly balding, an upright silhouette, a familiar - oh shit, what the fuck, oh my god, that is _Agent Phil Coulson_. She glares for another few seconds, because she might be wrong, but no, she is not wrong, she is Natasha Romanov, and her eyes work fine, and she definitely knows how Agent Phil Coulson looks, and that is Agent Phil Coulson and _goddammit_.

Natasha bolts. She squirrels herself into an alley still within visual range of the restaurant.

Natasha is not prone to the dramatic, but she’ll make an exception this time.
    
    
    to hawkeye: corner of 5th and main. alley. come rihgt now.
    
    to hawkeye: emergency.
    
    from hawkeye: u okay? be there in 5
    
    to hawkeye: no, not rly.
    
    to hawkeye: but i wont die.
    

Her fingers miss the correct keys and she curses. Goddammit, goddammit, _goddammit_.

Clint shows up in six minutes, and she’s not entirely sure how he got there that quickly - maybe he borrowed a motorcycle from the motor pool - but he’s here, and she grabs him and points towards the window where her Maria appears to be teasing _Agent Phil Coulson_ about his elaborate drink garnish(orange, cherry, pineapple, mint, who cares what he drinks, why is he talking to Maria?).

“Maria’s best friend is my handler, Clint!” she yelps at him, but Clint is already staring rigidly at the window, mouth slightly agape.

“Clint?” she prompts, shoving at him not too gently. “I’m flipping out over here!”

“That’s your girlfriend? _That_ is Maria?” Clint asks her, stern faced and wide eyed.

“Yes! Well, no, she’s not officially my girlfriend yet, but I’m not talking about her. How does she know Agent Coulson? Why does she know my handler?” Natasha demands.

“The man she’s talking to? In the suit. _That_ is Agent Coulson?” Clint asks again, growing horror creeping into his face.

“That’s what I just said! Jesus, Clint, help me out here.” she scolds.

“Oh, Tasha,” Clint sighs painfully. “We are a pair of goddamn idiots.”

Clint pulls Natasha away from the alley, and from visual range of the restaurant, forcibly ushering her to a nearby diner. He requests coffee and pie from the waitress immediately, practically shoving Natasha into the booth. Natasha is more frantic than he has ever seen her, and if he weren’t so stunned himself, he might actually find it hilarious.

“First of all, I know how you feel.” Clint starts, once he’s firmly planted in the sticky diner seat, and certain he won’t fall over.

“I really doubt that.” Natasha grumbles, petulantly. “I get one good thing in my life and it all falls apart because how in the world am I supposed to go have dinner with Maria and _Agent Phil Coul_ -”

“I’m dating him. Your handler. I’m dating Agent Phil Coulson.” Clint says, dejectedly, his hands cradling his forehead, as if they were all he had to hold it up.

Fortunately, that actually makes Natasha pause her nervous tirade.

“What? You’re dating Agent Coulson? He dates?”

“Well, I thought his name was Phil Campbell, and that he was an accountant, until - oh, seven minutes and forty five seconds ago.” Clint continues, stonily.

“But how does Maria know him?” Natasha’s brow furrows, her brain still laser focused on her own problems.

Clint looks at her like she’s an idiot. “Tasha, you dumbass. Agent Maria Hill is _my_ handler.”

In an alternate universe, a delicately carved woodblock print of Natasha’s face appears next to the dictionary definition of “flabbergasted.”

“Someone revoke my spy card.” Natasha groans, sinking into the soft plush seats, her head hitting the table and barely missing the coffee and pie.
    
    
    from maria: nat? are you okay?
    
    to maria: can’t talk now
    
    from maria: is everything okay?
    
    from maria: nat?
    
    

Clint is not hungry. Natasha stress-eats her way through three slices of apple pie.


	10. PHIL and MARIA:  the one where Phil and Maria are dumb.

“It’s not like her to not let me know ahead of time, you know?” Maria explains, and Phil’s heart breaks to see his friend so crushed. “I don’t think she’s gonna show, though. You can go home, Phil. Sorry for dragging you out.”

“Let’s have dinner anyway?” Phil offers.

“I’m not hungry anymore.” Maria mutters, and Phil thinks - wow, Maria must really like this girl if she’s not hungry. Maria is always hungry.

“C’mon, I’ll walk you to your place.” he says, pulling her out of her seat and ushering her out of the restaurant. They walk silently back to Maria’s place, where she half-heartedly invites him up for coffee. He’d spend more time with Maria, try to console her, but he knows that his friend prefers to mope alone.

Phil makes mental plans to bring her lunch the next day. However, he has found himself with a surprisingly open evening, and he certainly isn’t going to waste it, especially since they have to leave for helicarrier duty tomorrow.
    
    
    to clint francis: Hello gorgeous, doing anything tonight?
    from clint francis: busy
    to clint francis: Want to come over after busy?
    from clint francis: no
    to clint francis: Hey, are you okay?
    to clint francis: Clint?
    to clint francis: ?
    to clint francis: I’m really sorry, whatever it is?
    to clint francis: Call me back, please. Can we talk?
    

\---

"Tell me about her," Natasha says. They’re hiding - if hiding is the right word, which it really is - in Clint’s quarters on the Helicarrier. They’ve both checked in with their respective handlers, which was awkward, but both Agents Coulson and Hill had seemed disinclined to notice. It is also likely that both Clint and Natasha have spent more time practicing evasion techniques in the past few hours than they have in the past couple decades.

"About Maria Hill? She's kind of a bitch. A harpy.”

“Try again, with fewer gendered insults." Natasha snarls.

"She's a company woman. Ice cold. Hard as steel. She is a good agent." Clint tries again.

"Do you like her?"

"I respect her." Clint says, because he does. She lets him use a bow. She listens to him when necessary. She is terrifyingly competent and remarkably good at her job. No one likes Maria Hill much, but everyone respects her.

"Do you trust her?"

"We're not friends. She's my handler. I have no doubt that she will easily sacrifice me to protect the people or institutions she loves." Clint says, which is also true.

"Like SHIELD."

"Yeah. Or like you."

Natasha is silent for a moment, pausing her interrogation for a second.

“Are you going to talk to him?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“Like...just knock on his office door and apologize?” Natasha is skeptical.

“Look, Nat, I really think that Phil and I have something good. That’s - that’s worth fighting for, right?”

“You and Phil - _Agent Coulson_. Ugh, when did you become such a goddamn romantic, Barton?” Natasha waves at him accusingly. Clint shrugs.

The overhead speaker in Clint’s room buzzes on, and Agent Hill’s voice rings out, tight but confident. “Team Bravo, I need you on the flight deck ten minutes ago, equipped for ground combat and emergency field medical. We’re shipping out at 1200, that is in fifteen minutes, so get moving.”

\---

Maria Hill’s office on the helicarrier is sparse, undecorated. Her couch is neat, angular, leather, not like Phil’s well worn and upholstered one. Right now, Phil is practically stuck to her couch, whimpering. He looks like a sharply dressed beached manatee, she thinks.

“Phil, get off my couch.” she demands.

“I can’t. I’m dejected. I’m depressed. My world is over.” Phil whines into an abnormally ugly throw pillow.

“Maybe he’s just busy.” Maria shrugs.

“He’s not. He hates me, Maria. I don’t even know what I’ve done, and he hates me.”

“This is what is called a “fade out,” Phil. The complete dissolution of the relationship is preceded by reduced communication, frequently changed plans and and an increased level of busy on the part of the disinterested party.” she states, without inflection.

“ _Mariaaaaaa_.” Phil flops over, looking more pathetic than she’s ever seen him before, and she’s seen him in medbay on really wonderful drugs.

“You’re being extremely dramatic, Agent Coulson.”

“How do you hold it together so well, Maria?”

Maria raises an eyebrow at the hopeless lump of Phil Coulson draped over her couch. “I’ve been dumped before? I’m not thirteen? Phil, get it together.”

“This is the worst, Maria. The worst.”

It’s not entirely true, what Maria says. She wants Natalie, so, _so much_. She wants Natalie at dinner, eating heartily and happily, telling stories about her fascinating travels. She wants Natalie on her couch, pressing cold feet up against her side. She wants Natalie in her apartment, dressed in borrowed clothing, wandering around making tea in old socks. She wants Natalie in her bed, in her house, in her thoughts, in her _life_.

But she can’t have Natalie, apparently, so she’s falling back on her oldest and most practiced coping mechanism. Work. She can work. She has a lot of work to do. Goddammit, she wants Natalie.

Their wallowing is interrupted by Nick Fury slamming the office door open. Phil scrambles to a more upright position, trying to retain a small measure of dignity, as if he weren’t just spread out on Maria’s squeaky couch like a boneless sloth. Fortunately, Fury seems far too agitated to notice.

“Hill, I need you. Oh good, Coulson, you’re here too. I need both of you right now. Major shit going down at a South American HYDRA base, and you have the only two teams available. Hill, gather your team onto the flight deck now, leaving at 1200. Walk with me, I’ll brief you on the way. You’re running extraction. Coulson, your team will coordinate with Agent Sitwell, who’s on the ground and in a spot of trouble. Meet in conference room 3; I’ll send Black Widow there with your briefing packet.” Fury commands.

“This will be fun.” Maria says, having already launched herself from behind her desk, go-bag in hand. She reaches over to the wall to flick her office’s intercom on. “Team Bravo, I need you on the flight deck ten minutes ago, equipped for ground combat and emergency field medical. We’re shipping out at 1200, that is in fifteen minutes, so get moving.” she says.

“Hey, it’s our first mission together in years.” Phil smiles. He likes working. It’ll be a good distraction from his problems.

“Good luck, buddy.” Maria smirks, awkwardly fistbumping Phil on her way out.
    
    
    to Natalie: hey, i’m going to be out of touch for a bit, maybe a week or so. 
    to Natalie: can we talk when i get back? 
    to Natalie: i’m really worried about you.
    to Natalie: please?
    to Natalie: i miss you.
    to Natalie: this is stupid, but in case i don’t get to see you again...
    
    to Natalie: i love you.
    


	11. PHIL: the one where Phil finds out.

The mission could be better - their information was bad, the maps inaccurate, and Phil has already designed a completely new strategy in the last hour. But, it is a pleasure working with Maria again, she is efficient, an expert tactician, and Phil trusts her. She’s only been on the ground with him for an hour, but he’s already been on the comms with her for three, troubleshooting the plan being executed now, which looks likely to be successful - or at least much more successful than the last one. Agent Hill’s team is busy getting Sitwell’s team away from the action; he hopes that there won’t be a body count at the end of the day.

Agent Romanov reports in his ear - she has retrieved the data that Sitwell’s team came for, and the rest of his team is fighting their way out successfully, only needing cover once they emerge from the dilapidated HYDRA buildings. He has his sniper trained on the guy that’s responsible for this whole mess right now, and if all goes well, they’ll be cleaned up and out of this godforsaken place in an hour.

“-ack,” a small muffled cry sounds over his communicator, and Phil snaps his head around to see the form of his sniper slumped over a wall. A menacing HYDRA guard in full armour is holding a baton and is hovering over the sniper, about to radio in the position.  

“Hawkeye, take the shot if you have it.” Hill’s voice enunciates precisely, and an arrow flies through the air and hits the HYDRA guard right between the eyes. He drops like a sack of bricks.

“Hill, my sniper’s down.” Phil says, although he obviously knows that she knows.

“I pulled his vital stats up, he’s breathing, he’ll be fine. My team will get him out. Specialist Barton is currently in position on Building 3 to cover extraction. If he moves to the northwest quadrant of the building, he should have a similar visual range to your original sniper position. He’s yours, I’m patching you in to him right now. Heads up, he uses a medieval weapon.” Hill says, her tone stressed, but smoothly professional.

“I figured that out from the arrow I just saw flying by.” Phil responds, grateful. He disconnects Maria’s open line; she sounds busy. “Hawkeye, this is Agent Coulson. I’m taking over from Agent Hill. Talk to me.”

“Sure. Hello, Phil.” Clint’s voice transmits casually into his earpiece and Phil nearly drops everything he is holding.

“Clint? _Clint Francis_?” he yelps, somewhat unprofessionally. Well, very unprofessionally, and Phil has never felt so grateful for not being on an open comm line.

“Clint Francis Barton, actually. Clint Barton.” Clint’s voice purrs, sounding inappropriately amused.

Phil’s heart is leaping out of his suit(his field suit - rumours about him always wearing a tailored suit into battle are exaggerated), which is an absolutely mediocre situation to be in, crouched behind a recently mortared wall with a tablet in one hand, and a handgun in another. He takes a deep breath. He is Agent Phil Coulson and he is supposedly, and according to many outside sources, a stone cold badass, and he can do this stupid thing, even with this stupid boy back in the stupid picture in the most stupid way possible.

“Hawkeye, move to northwest quadrant of Building 3 and report.” his voice intentionally chilly and controlled.

“Your Agent Coulson voice is incredibly sexy. As is your field suit.” Clint’s voice reports back and Phil wants to throttle the man, and not in any particularly sexy way. This is not the time, this is really, really not the time.

“Specialist Barton, _report_.” Phil grits his teeth.

“I have visual range of the entire courtyard. Head honcho is surrounded by a bunch of flunkeys, but I have the shot.”

“Take the shot.” he orders.

Clint takes the shot - it is perfect, of course - and the courtyard bursts into activity around the fallen man. Phil thinks that he'd be impressed if he wasn't so angry. He promptly lobs a grenade into the yard to follow, which makes him feel a little bit better. It is quite a distance, and he’s slightly off, but grenades are pretty forgiving in terms of accuracy.

“Good job, Hawkeye.” Phil admits, when the explosion has settled, and a few new hostiles have appeared to try to clean up their fallen.

“Any time, Phil.”

“I prefer ‘Agent Coulson’.” Phil answers sharply. He is Agent Phil Coulson and he’s _working_ , and he does not have time to flirt with this goddamn ridiculous, lying, amazing, gorgeous, stupid, idiot man.

“Hill, status on extraction.” he says, as calmly as he can, although probably not calmly enough to escape Maria’s notice.

“Sniper is out. He will be fine. My team is in place for the others. What’s wrong with your voice? You sound a bit choked.” Yes, she definitely noticed. Oh, that will be a fun conversation, Phil thinks. So, Maria, that loudmouth sniper of yours you bitch about sometimes  - turns out he really puts the _ass_ in _asset_. Hilarious, right?

“I’ll tell you when we get back." Phil says instead. "Prepare to get Black Widow and the rest of my team out in five minutes. There is lots of activity in the central courtyard; I’ll handle that mess.”

“The legendary Black Widow. Can’t wait to meet her. Roger that. Shit - Coulson, wait.” Hill curses, and Phil hears her fire five shots.

“Five down, four remaining. Activate wipe sequence for Maria Hill, authorization code two two one baker. Activate tracker.” Maria says quietly, but calmly and clearly, before he hears a sixth shot and a scuffle. Her comm line shuts off with a crackle.

Phil knows what that means, because of course today is just not his day. All in the day of a SHIELD senior field agent, right? Accidentally fuck a SHIELD asset, eat a shitty sandwich, retrieve your best friend from hostiles, you know, the usual. He glares at his tablet, waiting for Maria’s subdermal tracker to flicker on, relieved when it finally does. By now, all of the equipment Maria was carrying will have been intentionally fried, and useless to anyone, including herself. He patches himself into her team’s communications; as the remaining senior agent, he has control of her team now. “Team Bravo, this is Agent Coulson, taking over for Agent Hill. Proceed with extraction plans as given by Hill. Team Alpha, proceed to extraction point as planned. Widow, hand off the data and hold back. Wait for my orders.” listening for the series of “Roger that, sir” to repeat back to him from his teams.

“I can extract Agent Hill, sir.” Natasha’s voice crackles over the comms.

“That was the plan, Romanov. Wait for me, you don’t know where she is and I do. Hawkeye, cover me. I’m going in.” Phil commands, checking his tablet to see Hill’s tracker light up steadily on his screen.

“Phil - um, Agent Coulson, please be careful.” Clint’s voice answers tightly.

“Just cover me, Barton.”

“Yes, sir.”

Agent Coulson runs for the building that Agent Maria Hill is in; the hostiles around him fall in a hail of perfectly accurate arrows.


	12. PHIL, NATASHA and MARIA: The one where they go get Maria.

The hall is dark, narrow and oppressive. Now, it is also silent, because Natasha Romanov has just cleared it. The floor is bloodstained, but not with her blood. She inhales deeply, and the air smells like metal.

“I should probably tell you something, sir.” Natasha says, as Agent Coulson marches quietly down the newly clearly corridor, ending with his back to the wall directly opposite hers.

“Can it wait? I’ve had enough surprises today.” Phil mutters, his eyes focused on the tablet.

“I’m Natalie Rush- “

“- Rushman, I know, I approve all your cover identities and this is really not the time - wait.” Phil pauses, all the pieces suddenly falling into place.”Shit. This is a joke that you and Hawkeye are playing, right?” he swears. Natalie, who modeled in Tokyo, is an actress and stuntwoman - he even _made_ that one. _Maria’s_ Natalie? He’d even filled out her IMDB profile himself!

“No, it’s not a joke. I found out when I saw you at dinner on Saturday.” Natasha says.

“You’re really serious?” Phil sighs, and Natasha nods. He’s living in a sitcom, Phil thinks. This is all ridiculous, and hopefully Maria is still holding up well, because this is going to be a really funny story later. Much later. Maybe in a decade or two.

“Well, we’d better go get Agent Hill, then.” he says, starting down the hall.

“Yes, sir.” Natasha checks her weapons, and follows.

“It says we’re standing right where she’s supposed to be.” Phil says, staring down at his tablet.

“Underground. She’s underground.” Natasha looks around, a little bit frantically. “Our maps were not accurate. I haven’t had the chance to map out the underground entrances.”

“Calm down, Romanov. We’ll go down, but we need backup. Hawkeye, are you equipped for close combat?”

“Always, sir.” Clint responds, but his voice is strained

“East side of Building 3 should be clear; all hostiles are either down or underground. Radio your position, we’ll meet you there.”

They meet up with Clint right outside the building they’re in, the courtyard now riddled with bodies that aren’t on their side. Phil twitches a bit when he sees Clint, but refuses to look him in the face, instead staring firmly at the blinking dot of Maria’s tracker, pulling up several building diagrams with far more purpose than he’d usually expend. Goodness, he thinks - the man’s uniform doesn’t even have sleeves - what sort of idiot dreamed that up? This is a really bad time to dwell on Clint’s strong arms. His strong, stupid, lying, idiot arms.

“Romanov, I need explosives by that pipe. We’ll go in together.” Agent Coulson points. “Hawkeye, cover from here, and then follow.” he continues, not waiting for Clint’s response.

“Yes, sir.” Natasha says, but her voice is tight, and trembles slightly. Most wouldn’t even catch it, but of course Phil does.

“Agent Romanov.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I know you’re worried. But Maria - well, whatever she used as her cover story - please know that Agent Hill is one of the best agents I’ve ever had the honour to work with. She can take care of herself and she has pulled my ass out of trouble many times.”

“Yes, sir.” Natasha responds. But even though Natasha rationally knows now that Agent Maria Hill is a trained SHIELD agent, and perfectly capable of withstanding interrogation and torture - oh god, not torture - _her_ Maria is caring and clever and funny and she wants _her_ Maria back, not Agent Maria Hill. But for now, Natasha is also Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow, and she cannot be weak.

Footsteps sound from inside the building, and Phil gestures to the opening door, without raising his own gun. He trusts his team, even if he still can’t trust himself to even glance at Clint. Natasha takes three down with three accurate shots. and Clint looses an arrow into the remaining guard.

Natasha plants the explosives, rigs the timer, and they take cover as the blast creates a gaping hole in the ground.

\---

Maria can’t quite feel her right arm when she drifts back into consciousness. She looks down - her entire arm down from her elbow is a wretched mass of flesh and blood, and cuffed to her other wrist, which aches, but is at least present and accounted for. Just her right arm, then. Well, that still leaves three peripheral limbs that she can work with. They’ve given her something; her head is fogged and drowsy. She forces her way through it. Perhaps it’s just blood loss. Phil will come for her, she knows. He won’t let her die while their requisition form balance is still tipped in his favour.

“Who are you?” a gruff voice rings out in the dark.

Maria says nothing. She counts. The voice, behind her. On either side of her, two men, she can see their large shapes shifting uncomfortably. They are larger, they look clumsy. They’re just brutes. No finesse, just bulk. She can take them all out, perhaps. Her head throbs; her eyes can’t focus. She breathes. She will stay awake. She will stay alert. She will stay observant. Phil will come.

“I said - who are you?” the gruff man repeats.

She remains silent, but her drowsy brain mulls over the question. She is Agent Maria Hill, of course. She is a SHIELD Senior Field Agent. She is a fighter, a soldier, a spy, and she will not die today.

The man with the voice moves to lean down in front of her, his gun pressed to her forehead. He is too close now, and exactly close enough. She knees him in the crotch, hard, and he doubles over. He calls her a bitch, grabbing onto her arm, which hurts now - jesus, it hurts, pins and needles and fire and pain, pain, pain, rushing up from her mangled fingers, ow, motherfucker, ow. She spits in his face; his face is flecked with her blood.

The ceiling explodes above her, and gunshots ring out in the room. She tips her chair to the left, and falls on hard concrete, covered in dust. The man with the voice is partially buried under rubble now. She sees his gun. He reaches for it. She takes it instead. She shoots him, forcing her functioning, if non-dominant, hand to drag up the other painfully. It hurts, but squeezing the trigger is a muscle memory. Her aim is a bit off, but at point blank range, it doesn’t matter. He shatters in a mass of blood and bone, and she considers belatedly that Phil might have wanted to take the man alive. But her eyes sting, and she wants to close them.

And then there’s Phil, and there’s Hawkeye, and they’ve come for her. Phil hates his field suit, she thinks, hates that it’s too tight and shows off his butt, which is hilarious. Hawkeye grapples one of the larger men to the ground - he’s just showing off those arms again, she thinks. She laughs, because what else is there to do?

And then, there’s Natalie too, and Maria’s certain that she has lost too much blood now. Natalie, beautiful and angry. Natalie has two handguns; this must be a subconscious fantasy, Maria thinks, but she likes it. Natalie is dancing, soot in her fiery hair. Natalie is a warrior, a brilliant light of hope, of love, of possibility. Natalie, Natalie, Natalie, she wants to kiss Natalie, she wants to see Natalie again, she _wants_ Natalie. “Maria!” Natalie says, and Marie looks at her and chuckles. As far as near death hallucinations go, she thinks, this one is _awesome_.

“I’ve got you, dumbass.” Phil says, and she rests. The fog settles over her again; she fades into it, visions of red hair and soft lips dancing as she sleeps.


	13. PHIL and MARIA: The one where Phil threatens Natasha, and Maria finds out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell from the chapter count, Clint and Phil take a bit longer to get their act together. Also, I'm on Tumblr now as "[dustjane](http://www.tumblr.com/blog/dustjane)"...!

Phil sits outside Maria’s room in the helicarrier's medical bay, absentmindedly toying with his tie. The ride home had been bumpy and too long, and he had spent most of it with a direct line to Medical as they talked him through performing an emergency blood transfusion for his barely conscious friend. He has not spoken to Clint; he hasn’t wanted to. Just as well - Clint - well, Specialist Barton - _Hawkeye_ \- had holed up in a corner of the transport, trying to prevent Agent Romanov from getting in his way, even despite all of Phil’s assurances that Maria would be fine(not entirely the truth at the time, but she’s fine now). Phil had demanded that the other two agents debrief with Agent Sitwell the moment he’d stepped off the helicarrier, still refusing to speak to Clint directly. It was childish perhaps - if by perhaps, we mean definitely - and he is a bit grateful that at least he could mask his own cowardice under concern for his best friend.

Now, Phil is perched on an uncomfortable plastic bench, that couldn’t possibly be shaped to fit anyone’s posterior, with a moment - too many moments - to dwell on his own confused thoughts. He forces himself to wrench his mind off Clint, or Hawkeye, whichever he is, although Phil is already well aware of which one he really is. His Clint is Hawkeye, of course, because being a SHIELD agent always comes first, and he was stupid, absolutely _stupid_ , to think it could ever be different. And he is Agent Phil Coulson, and Agent Coulson does not get to date, to have a normal life, to wake up with a man in his bed that smells like whiskey and feels like home.

He leans back against the awkward seat, and stares into the fluorescent light above, letting the bright glare hurt his eyes. He deserves it. He blinks, once, and the Black Widow is there in his peripheral vision. He turns his head slightly to look at her; she is still in her field suit, still covered in ash and smoke and dirt. She sits down next to him, and he can smell the gunpowder and blood.

“She’ll be okay?” she starts, sounding far more nervous than he’d expect out of the deadliest espionage agent he knows.

“Yeah, she’ll be okay. They had her sedated for the surgery, her arm was pretty mangled. She’ll be off active field duty for a few months - at least six months, maybe more.”

“Thank you, sir.” Natasha says, quietly. She exhales deeply; she was holding her breath. “Agent Coulson, we didn’t know, you know? Not until I saw you on Saturday. Clint and I - we just wanted to try to be happy, a little bit normal.”

Phil doesn’t answer. It might have been easier if this were all just a prank, a joke, a malicious gag at his expense. Humiliation he can deal with - but this, well, this is harder. This is just...loss. He has lost Clint Francis, because Clint Francis has never existed. He has only ever been Specialist Clint Barton - Hawkeye - and Phil Campbell has only ever been Agent Phil Coulson, and this is a new world where Specialist Barton and Agent Coulson do not - _cannot_ \- wake up sleepy and bleary eyed and tangled in each other.

“Agent Romanov?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I want you to know that Maria Hill is my best friend.”

“I don’t intend to hurt her, sir.” Natasha responds sharply, and a bit too quickly, answering his unasked question. Good. She’s not going anywhere, then. Somehow, he wants this for Maria, even if he can’t begin to dream it for himself.

“Good to hear, because if you do - “ and here, Natasha raises an eyebrow at him as if to dare him to even threaten to kill her, but Phil is smart enough to recognize deadly assassins when he works with them for a living “- if you hurt her, in any way at all, I will have you transferred to our Arctic outpost for six months, or until she gets over you, whichever is longer.”

“Yes, sir.” Natasha says, primly, but her eyes are smiling brightly even beneath the layers of worry.

The doctor finally emerges from the room. “She’s asking for you, Agent Coulson.”

\---

Maria’s first word when Phil walks in is “Ugh.” He pulls up a chair to the right of her bedside, pats the gigantic cast that her right arm is entirely wrapped in. She is still quite sedated, and drowsy, but she musters up enough energy to scowl at him.

“What is this?” Maria glares at her bandaged arm. “Coulson, hand me that clipboard.” she demands, waving her remaining arm at her medical records resting at the foot of the hospital bed.

“Oh my goodness, how am I supposed to explain this to Natalie? There is no cover good enough for this. What sort of stupid project manager manages to maim her stupid hand and break her stupid arm in - jesus, four places?” she grumbles drowsily as she reads.

“Er yeah, about Natalie - “ Phil starts.

“I told her I loved her. _Over text message._ That was stupid, right? Yes, of course that was stupid. I’ve only known her for a week. That’s definitely too soon. And I think she’d dumped me already, anyway, so it doesn’t matter. Phil, this is awful.”

“Maria, Natalie is - “ Phil tries again.

“ - the most amazing and beautiful and clever and amazing woman I’ve ever met, and I screwed it all up, and now I am in a stupid bed with my stupid arm in a stupid cast and I’m going to be off active field duty for months and I’m going to be so bored and -”

“Agent Hill, _shut up already_.” Phil commands, in his Agent Coulson voice, and even Maria Hill shuts up when faced with that.

“What?” she snaps, petulantly. Phil is already standing up, retreating to the door.

“There’s someone here to see you.” Phil says, and steps out of her room.

And then there is Natalie, standing right there, in her doorway, and Maria’s slightly sedated thoughts rush to sharply focus on her face. Natalie, beautiful and bright, and...covered in dirt? Natalie smells like smoke and gunpowder and steel, her hair loose and tangled and wild. And she’s in an impossibly sexy field suit for some reason - a SHIELD field suit?

“Natalie?” Maria stammers, far too many thoughts swirling in her head simultaneously.

“It’s Natasha, actually. Natasha Romanov. Sorry.” Natalie - Natasha replies, still hovering nervously by the door.

Maria’s drugged brain tries to connect the dots, she really does try hard, but she’s already been poked and prodded and medicated for hours, and everything hurts and all she knows is Natalie is here, Natalie Rushman’s name is actually Natasha Romanov, Natalie is a world class assassin and espionage agent too, but she’s here, she’s here, she’s here. Natalie is _here_.

“You - you look incredible.” Maria mumbles, and falls back asleep.

\---

When Maria wakes up again, Natalie - Natasha - Nat is still there, and has taken the time to clean up and change into something a bit more normal(she took exactly eight minutes and twenty two seconds, and only because Agent Coulson commanded it) - although, that field suit is incredibly sexy - and no longer smells like a war zone, which is very nice. Maria isn’t the biggest fan of the smell of war zones. Natasha smells like soap and honey now. It’s pleasant. She even looks like Natalie again, in jeans and a soft t-shirt. But she’s Natasha. Natasha Romanov. Agent Romanov. The Black Widow.

“I’d apologize for lying to you, but I think we can call it even on that count.” Natasha starts.

“I’m not a project manager, by the way.” Maria says, still drowsy.

“I _might_ have already figured that one out.” Natasha assures her.

“You’re not mad at me?” Maria asks, hopefully. She doesn’t have any walls up; she just has codeine running through her veins.

“Oh, I am. Are _you_ mad at me?” Natasha replies, already smiling.

“Positively furious. You stood me up.” Maria says, even as Natasha bends over to kiss her softly.

“What I said - the part where I thought we could be good together. That was the truth.“ Natasha is honest.

“I feel a bit dumb for punching that asshole now.” Maria says, and Natasha giggles.

Maria pulls her closer. They apologize with gentle kisses, they speak carefully with their hands.

“So, what now?” Natasha asks, having somehow managed to fold herself into the hospital bed next to Maria.

“Well, if you want to do this...” Maria begins.

“Are you asking me to be your girlfriend?”

“I’d try to be a little coy, but I’m very medicated right now.” Maria smiles blearily. ”Yes, Miss Romanov, valued SHIELD espionage agent, would you like to be my girlfriend?”

“Do you think it will work?”

“Well, we will both have reams of paperwork to fill out.” Maria says. Exemption to fraternization rules. Forms 1069b and c. And Form 1069d, if they choose to move in together. Oh, and Natasha will have to petition to live off base too if they do that - that’s a whole other stack of forms.

“I meant, _us_. Do you think we will work?” Natasha asks, breaking Maria out of her mental paperwork recitation.

“I don’t know, Nat.” Maria can call her Nat for now, while she gets used to the new name. “But, I want to try. Will that do for now?”

“Yes. That’ll do. Go back to bed.” Natasha says, her warmth pressed up against Maria’s side, her soft hands brushing Maria’s bruised skin.

Maria obeys, gratefully.

 


	14. PHIL and CLINT: The one where Maria is happy, and Phil is not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for leaving you here for the weekend. It gets worse before it gets better - but I promise that there is a happy ending. I'm on Tumblr now([dustjane.tumblr.com](http://dustjane.tumblr.com/)), and you can send me prompts(to be written after this finishes in a few chapters) or questions and stuff at my [ask box](http://dustjane.tumblr.com/ask).

“Why are you so happy? Are you still on those really good painkillers?” Phil demands, as Maria’s cheery face pokes around his door.

“Nooope. Just Tylenol now.” Maria practically sings, and it’s weird.

“Are you going to make me guess? I’m in a really terrible mood, please don’t make me guess.” Phil grumbles.

Phil hasn’t even seen Clint since getting back on the helicarrier. Given, he’d been holed up in his office, pointedly avoiding the other man. He’d even managed to avoid any debriefings with Clint in it, which probably ranks as one of the most cowardly things he’s ever done, perhaps second only to dropping out of his ninth grade talent show at the last minute because he didn’t want the other kids to know he played the cello. And, now he owes Sitwell a million favours for handling all of those debriefing sessions in his stead. He’ll be filling out other people’s requisition forms for a decade, at this rate.

“So, I’m off field duty while we try to repair my arm, right?” Maria starts.

“Right.”

“I was given the option of heading up a team of intelligence analysts...”

“ - sounds fun, but you’re wasted at a desk.” Phil points out.

“- or I can take a promotion to Assistant Deputy Director.”

Phil finally lifts his head from his work. “Congratulations, Maria. Fury has had his eye on you for  while. And that means - .”

“ - that means, though the wonderful vagaries of the SHIELD organizational chart, I am actually several degrees removed enough from Agent Romanov’s reporting structure to be exempt from fraternization regulations.”

“So, you plan to continue - _fraternizing_ with Agent Romanov, then.”

“Yes, and we’re going away for the weekend in the mountains the moment the helicarrier is back on solid ground. A cabin and a fireplace, and all that rustic crap she likes for some reason. Here’s her vacation request.” she says, pulling a form out from behind her back and handing it to him with a pen.

“I think you’re abusing our friendship, Maria.” Phil snarks, but he signs it after only a brief glance.

“I’m happy for you, Maria, I really am.” Phil exhales, rubbing at his forehead.

“I also brought you all the personnel files for my team - well, yours now. Including Specialist Barton’s.” she says, emphasizing the name he does not want her to emphasize.

“I know.” he replies sadly, gesturing to an empty place on his desk. He’s going to be Clint’s handler now, and it’ll be difficult and likely heartwrenching for him to deal with, but they’re both professionals. They’ll make it work.

“I also got you this.” Maria says, more quietly, placing yet another folder on his desk. Ugh, they really need to get some paperwork reduction initiatives in order at SHIELD, Phil considers.

He flips through it; it looks like the regulations on fraternization(which he has already read, of course), with lots of comments written in a slightly more left-handed version of Maria’s small loopy handwriting along the borders.

“There is a weird little clause in our regulations; I spent a few hours researching it, for obvious reasons. If a relationship is established outside of SHIELD duties, without any connection to SHIELD or knowledge of a partner’s SHIELD status, it might qualify for an exemption to fraternization regulations. It’s not a guarantee, but I’ve already written out the argument for your case for the ethics review board. It’s the last few pages at the back here.” she explains.

“Maria - thank you, but - “

“ - just think about it, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Phil sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

“One more thing.” Maria continues, hovering in the doorway, her cast bumping against the doorknob. “Barton’s personnel file. It’s pretty rough, his past.“ She winces a bit and Phil’s instinct is screaming at him to go find Clint right now and tell him that no one will ever hurt him again, even if he knows that no one can really promise that. He represses his instinct. It hasn’t served him well the past week, after all.

Maria continues, “But I wanted to let you know myself, he’s a really good kid. And I trust him with my life, and I’ll trust him with yours.”

\---

Clint reports to Agent Coulson’s office as ordered, racing up from his quarters, his heart pounding.

“Hawkeye.” Phil says, flatly.

“Phil - Agent Coulson. You can still call me Clint, you know?” Clint offers, trying desperately to sound casual, and not at all eager.

Phil raises a cold eyebrow. “No, I cannot.” he says, and Clint stiffens, and not in the way he’s used to doing around Phil - Agent Coulson.

“Agent Hill will no longer be working as a field handler due to her recent promotion to Assistant Deputy Director. I will be taking over her teams, including Team Bravo. Due to our history, I was concerned about potential conflicts of interest, so please state if you have any misgivings about me being your handler.” Phil says sternly, and without inflection. Clint cannot read his face, and that tells Clint everything.

“Is there another option, Agent Coulson?” Clint asks, poking at the cracks that do not exist on Coulson’s mask. What Clint really means is - is there an option where I can still cook you dinner, and sit on your couch kissing you all over? Is there an option where _we_ exist; is there an option where I can try again?

Coulson only fixes his stony gaze on Clint.

“The other options are Agent Sitwell, or Agent Carter.” Agent Coulson answers, but that was not the question, and that was most certainly not an answer.

“In that case, I’d like you to be my handler. Sir.” Clint says, and what he really means is that he actually somehow, despite everything, does still trust Agent Coulson with his life, even if Phil is careless with his heart.

“Thank you, Specialist Barton. That will be all.” Coulson breaks eye contact, pointedly, and returns to the work on his desk.

“Can we - “ Clint starts, but the other man now exists in a world of paper and mission reports and spit shined shoes and security briefings and tailored suits and clipped instructions and Clint Francis Barton, is only Specialist Barton, and nothing more.

Clint, dismissed,  manages to make his way back to his small quarters before he punches a hole in his wall. He bruises his knuckles, and he’ll pay for it at training the next day, but he doesn’t care.

He isn’t sure how she manages to find out, but thirty minutes into his focused and intensive moping session, Natasha unlocks his door, and she’s holding a small tub of drywall compound and two putty knives.


	15. PHIL and CLINT: the one where Natasha and Maria gang up on the boys.

Phil arrives at his office the next day to the smell of fresh coffee and a box of fresh doughnuts on his desk. Which would have been very greatly appreciated, except that Maria Hill is also on his couch, a small folding tray table filled with piles of paperwork. She adjusts herself further into the throw pillows, tapping away at her laptop’s keyboard with one hand.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I brought you coffee and doughnuts. You’re welcome, Phil.”

“Thank you. What are you doing here?” he demands again.

Maria tries to look up innocently at him, but it just looks creepy.

“You have a great couch, and I will only leave this office if Clint Barton walks through that door.” she says.

“Maria. I have work to do.” he complains.

“So do I. Do your work. It’s not me that you have to find the balls to talk to.”

“Can we not discuss my balls?” Phil says.

“What balls? I don’t think there are any balls in this room, are there? Nope, I’m pretty sure that your office is currently the metaphorical equivalent of Lance Armstrong’s boxer briefs.”

Phil scowls at her and goes back to work. They’ve done this before, except that it is usually a comfortable silence as they work together on a pressing deadline, not an insulting stakeout on his couch. On the bright side, her typing is exceptionally loud, and the more annoyed he is at her, the less time he has to dwell on Clint.

Three hours later, Maria stands up. “I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be right back. Don’t lock me out.” Phil promptly locks her out. He is familiar with Maria’s physical security skillset; she’s acceptable, but not great, with locks. He leans back into his chair, exhausted.

Ten minutes later, his doorknob rattles slightly, beeps twice, and unlocks.

“Thanks, Nat.” Maria says, Natasha behind her. Ah yes. Maria’s _girlfriend_ is very good with locks. Natasha waves at him, and then gestures threateningly at him before Maria closes the door. He frowns, curious -  did she just use the ASL for “person above”? Oh. Oh, right. It is “man up.” He sighs painfully. He doesn’t get any respect around here, he thinks.

“She works for me, you know?” Phil says. He can’t have his own assets turn on him now, can he?

“She’s on medical leave. She’s not on the clock.”

“She was uninjured.” Phil points out.

“Mental health day.”

“We don’t have those.” Phil says, but Maria only shrugs, sitting back on the couch to reorganize his throw pillows..

“You’re ganging up on me.” Phil accuses Maria.

“No shit, Sherlock.” she answers, settling in to sign another pile of forms, grumbling about having to use her less dominant hand.

\---

Clint is trying to focus on his target practice, he really is. He’d retreated to the range to get away from Phil, which was probably unnecessary since he hasn’t even seen Phil since getting off the transport. He has been shooting for two hours, and his arm is sore, and his fingers are already chapped. His knuckles are still bruised from his standoff with a wall yesterday, and they ache. He would like to continue working, continue shooting, because at least that is a space where he is in control, distant, calm, but now he has Natasha here, and she is horribly distracting. She is not distracting in the way she sometimes is, when she’s offering comfort and solace and vodka after a difficult mission, or just one of his many - and regular - bad decisions.

No, oh no, this time Natasha is parked right outside his lane, and she is barking the most emasculating verbal insults at him. Some of it is in Russian, which he does not speak, but he can figure out the general gist of it. Russian is an angry, angry language, he thinks. In English, she has come up with about forty seven ways to say “have your testicles shrivelled up and been fed to rabid goats?” which would be impressive and funny if the abuse was directed some place other than himself. She’s been at it for an hour, completely ignoring that he is completely ignoring her.

Clint is genuinely considering whether he can let loose one of his smoke arrows quickly enough before Natasha notices - he’s willing to try that if it would give him a chance to escape the verbal tirade - when she finally slows down, and just glares at him silently. Somehow, that is even more disconcerting.

“He pretty much dumped me, you know.” Clint finally says, a lump in his throat.

“He is so smitten by you, can’t you tell? It’s okay, maybe you’re not a very good spy.”

“You’re the one that always said love’s for children!” he accuses.

“You are a child! You’re literally hiding out from the best man you’ve ever met.”

“He said he only wanted to be my handler.”

“And what did he say when he wasn’t speaking?” Natasha demands.

Clint brings up the image of Phil sitting straight backed behind his desk. He is impassive, emotionless, his face trained into a hard stare. His voice is steady, even, calm, cold. But his knuckles are white, gripping uselessly around an ugly paperweight. It’s a tell - Clint knows that it is - and it means so much, and nothing at all. Clint needs words to reassure him, not pale  knuckles.

“There is no point, Tasha. He doesn’t want me.”

“Would you give him a chance if he did?” she asks, a little bit softer.

“Would I date a cold, lying, unemotional man? No, probably not. Leave me the fuck alone already.” Clint gathers up his gear and storms out of the room. Natasha does not follow.

\---

Maria Hill has to go to SHIELD Medical for a checkup at 3pm, and Phil watches the clock eagerly until she finally steps out. He considers whether he can pull a favour with Engineering to just weld his door shut. He has a box of MREs in his bottom drawer; he’ll survive for a couple days. Maybe he can bring all his work home, but home makes him think of Clint even more than his office does. He’s certain that there is still a grey sock belonging to Clint in his living room - he saw it in the morning, but didn’t quite have the heart to approach it. Good job, super secret agent Phil Coulson, you are heartbroken and devastated by the sight of a grown man’s ratty sock stuck under your coffee table, he thinks.

His email chirps; he looks up.
    
    
    from: SHIELD Requisitions <shieldreqs@shield.gov>
    to: Phil Coulson <pcoulson@shield.gov>
    cc: Maria Hill <mhill@shield.gov>
    
    Dear Agent Coulson,
    
    We regret to inform you that in response to your requisition form 1231113,
    filed on your behalf by Agent Maria Hill at 0830 today, we are unable to fulfill
    the following items:
    
    Requested: ‘a pair of family jewels’
    Reason for Rejection: No precious or semi precious stones are kept in permanent inventory.
    
    Requested: ‘two nuts’
    Reason for Rejection: Unclear specifications; needs detail or item number.
    Please refer to either Requisition Booklet 14(Food Products and Edibles) or Requisition Catalog 2 (Hardware), 
    and list the correct item number.
    
    The remaining item requested, ‘a couple of huevos’, is available for pick up at the SHIELD Cafeteria, 
    at your convenience.
    
    In the future, please note that filling out a requisition form is not necessary for any item available via 
    SHIELD Food Services.
    
    Thank you,
    Requisitions Department

It is a testament to the stern and competent reputation that Phil has built up at SHIELD that anyone in the area pointedly ignores the loud crash heard in his office. When Maria Hill opens his door, which he hasn’t bothered to lock again, Phil is already sweeping up the pieces of his broken coffee mug himself.

“Here, I’ll do that.” she says, taking the dust pan from him. The mug is largely picked up anyway, and she dumps the pieces into the wastebasket with a sharp clang. “Sit down. I’ll get you another.” she says, and Phil sinks down into his couch, defeated.

Maria returns in a few minutes, a new mug filled with fresh coffee in hand. She looks at her dejected friend. “I’m sorry for being an asshole.” she apologizes, and Phil mumbles something she can’t quite hear, but it’s probably something along the lines of an grumpy absolution.

She sits down next to him, and hands him the mug. It is hot, and the steam warms his face.

“Remember when we were going through training and those recruits from the Army were picking on the kid we recruited from MIT?” Maria asks.

“I remember getting beaten up.” Phil says. He did get beaten up. Maria had jumped in on his side, and neither of them had emerged victorious.

“You got beaten up _instead_. Because you defended the kid. Remember that time when I was stuck in El Salvador?”

“Yes, we got out. What’s your point, Maria?”

“My point, since you’re being exceptionally dense, is that you do so much for other people. You’re always trying to martyr yourself saving some junior agent, and by the way, you really have to stop that. You’re always cheering someone else on. When are you going to let yourself have something good?” she says.

“I was _trying_.”

"You like him right? What's the problem?"

"He's perfect." Clint is perfect. Clint is young, Clint is beautiful, Clint is wonderful. And Phil - well, Phil just doesn't think he can really live up to that. 

"Ha." Maria laughs. "First of all, trust me, Barton is not perfect. But he's a good person. And seriously, Phil, look at you. You're a catch."

"I'm a mid forties workaholic with a receding hairline." Phil explains, as if she were a child. Maria Hill is not a child, and she does not tolerate self deprecation.

"You're the kindest person I know, Phil. You're the only person that can make me laugh, and that's because you're actually funny, not because I'm humourless. You're on the short list of people I'd trust with my life. I feel a bit weird telling you that you're very good looking, but you are. You're the SHIELD agent with the highest mission success rate -"

"Speaking of SHIELD - " he interrupts, even though he knows as well as anyone that he's just using the rules as shield - ha, pun intended - for his surprising level of cowardice. 

“Dating Clint Barton is not going to be a liability.” she assures him.

“How do you know that?”

“Because, _I know you_. I know him well enough too. You’ll both be professionals in the field - well, you more so than Barton, but he’s not my problem anymore - and you’ll do your job, regardless of the way your relationship plays out. In Scenario A, you can be professional and miserable, and in Scenario B, you can be professional and happy.” Maria says, and she’s not supposed to make sense, but she sort of does.

Phil sighs loudly. “Are you going to hound me until I go talk to him?”

“No, I’m done. Thank you for not filing harassment paperwork with HR.”

“Okay, then.”

“And, also, you are being a dick.”

“What?”

“You are being a dick. A giant bag of dicks. Barton is moping in his quarters. You’ve made a grown man mope, Phil.”

“He’s...moping?”

“Over _you_.” Maria pokes Phil in the shoulder to emphasize the “you.”

“He’s moping...over _me_?”

“Phil. Stop being a dumbass.”

“Right.” Phil pauses. He looks thoughtful.  

“So, you’ll go then?” Maria starts again, standing up.

“Get out of my office. You’re no good at pep talks.” Phil says, but he is at least smiling a little.


	16. CLINT: the one where Phil and Clint make up.

There is a sharp knock on Clint’s door. Clint ignores it, but it persists.

“Goddammit, Romanov!” he curses, yanking the door open. “I am not going to date Agent Coulson!” he yells - into Phil Coulson’s face, because _of course_ it’s not Natasha because Natasha wouldn't even knock, and he really should have learned that by now.

To his credit, Phil does not turn away and leave immediately. The man is made of sterner stuff than that, apparently. “I was hoping we could talk about that.” he says, wryly.

“I didn't mean that. I mean, not that I want to - don’t want to - date - I - I mean, Agent Romanov has just been giving me lots of crap, okay?” Clint grumbles ineloquently, still blocking the doorway.

“I know the feeling. Can I come in?” Phil asks, politely.

“Yeah? Yeah.” Clint stammers, waving the other man - ugh, his _handler_ \- in.

Phil sits down at the small desk by Clint’s bed, moving quietly. He folds his suit jacket behind the chair; he loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves. Clint sinks back down on his bed, eyes closed, body tense and primed for the official conversation where Phil explains to him how delusional he really was. How could have Clint expected that a perfect, competent, gorgeous man like Phil could ever be with a colossal fuckup like himself, he wonders, and he squeezes his eyes shut harder.

Phil tosses something down next to him, the sound of a manila folder slapping against the mattress, and Clint reluctantly opens his eyes to look at it. It’s his personnel file, and it’s the unredacted version. Great, he thinks, as if everything else wasn't embarrassing enough, Phil now also knows his distasteful history. What an awful day.

“I haven’t read it.” Phil says, an unexpected quiver in his voice breaking Clint out of his bout of self loathing. “I thought that perhaps I’d just ask you about it. I know it’s probably not easy to trust me now, but -”

“Well, you _lied_ to me, Mr. Accountant.” Clint cuts him off, sounding perhaps a little - well, a lot - more hurt and angry and bitter than he intended to.

“I’m sorry.” Phil says, and that’s...all he says. Phil does not point out that Clint has done his fair share of lying too, that Clint is not a construction worker, that Clint does not live in the Bronx. He doesn't say anything about regulations, anything about being a field liability, anything about rules existing for a reason. Phil doesn't say anything at all, he just sits there, looking like a kicked puppy - and jesus, that face is just heartbreaking. It throws Clint off balance, it really does.  

Phil does not try to explain. He just sits there, open and unguarded. He looks exhausted, tired, old, and Clint wonders if Phil has actually gotten any sleep in the past couple days.

Phil looks at his hands, callused and white and slightly scarred. He looks at the short carpet in Clint’s quarters, rough and grey. He looks at the small pile of Clint’s laundry, tossed haphazardly at the foot of the bed. He looks at his shoes, which are black and polished, and not that interesting.

Finally, Phil looks at Clint.

Clint looks back at Phil’s face, tracing his gaze over the smooth cheekbones and the wrinkles next to his eyes. Phil’s face is worn, and soft, and sad, but Phil does not look away. He’s just _present_ and accounted for, and looking at Clint like Clint happens to hold all the answers in the world to all the unasked questions. Clint has no answers, but he thinks he understands the question now. It’s not Agent Coulson sitting in front of him now, not strong, confident, competent, professional Agent Coulson. It’s not Agent Coulson, who wears his suits like armour, because they are. It’s just Phil. Just Phil, who doesn't stock any non-microwavable food in his apartment. Just Phil, who owns Captain America boxers. Just Phil, who likes good whisky, but drinks the cheap stuff. Just Phil, in rolled up shirt sleeves and a loosened tie, just Phil, _his_ Phil, gorgeous, smart, sweet Phil, and Phil actually looks _nervous_. Strike that, he looks _terrified_.

It occurs to Clint, that perhaps he is the first, in many, many. many years, to see Phil with his guard entirely down.

“My name is Clint Francis Barton. I was raised in a circus. I almost killed my brother.” Clint starts. He’s trying to apologize, but he doesn't really know how to. At least he can try to be honest, he thinks. It's a start, and maybe - maybe, there will be a start again.

Phil smiles softly, warily. “My name is Philip J. Coulson. I was born and raised in Boston. I have lost twenty seven agents under my direct command.”

“I like Disney movies.” Clint offers.

“I play the cello. Not very well.” Phil responds.

“I’m actually very good at darts.”

“I really am a huge Captain America fan.”

Clint sighs and extends his hand across the room. “Well. It’s very nice to meet you, Phil Coulson.”

Phil takes it. “The same, Clint Barton,” he says, but Clint does not let go of Phil’s hand, not now, and possibly not ever. It only takes a slight, permissive tug from Phil before Clint is in front of his chair, their hands still clasped together tightly.

“We should probably talk about this.” Phil starts, but Clint is already kissing him silent.

“I’m not good at this.” Phil tries again, but Clint is has already manhandled him over to the small bed, and is pushing him down reassuringly.

“I’m sorry I'm so - “ Phil says, but Clint is tracing the angles of his face with his rough hands, and his touch is electric, forgiving and holds promises that Clint intends to keep.

Clint is surprisingly gentle when he wants to be.

“Goddammit, Phil, do you even know how gorgeous you are?” Clint whispers, into Phil’s neck.

“No, not really.” Phil responds, sheepishly, and that is a problem for Clint, because how - how is it even possible that such a ridiculously amazing man has no idea - oh, oh, Clint gets it. Phil actually _isn't_ aware of how utterly devastating he is. Phil looks in the mirror, and sees his own undercover identities, a bland, unassuming, uninteresting man. But Clint - Clint, and everyone else who knows Phil Coulson - sees the irrepressible spark of intelligence, competence and humour, and Clint’s heart is breaking to know that Phil has _no idea_.

Phil reads Clint’s personnel file in Clint’s quarters. Clint sits with him, partially curled up on the bed, his shoulders against Phil’s legs, his head creeping into his lap. Phil runs his fingers into Clint’s hair during the difficult parts and Clint leans back into the touch. Phil reads silently, but Clint knows which parts he’s on by the way Phil’s body tenses, his fingers grabbing around Clint’s arm. He doesn't need to ask what Phil is thinking. He doesn't want Phil to feel sorry for him; he doesn't want to be pitied. But the way that Phil clutches at him isn't pity at all.

Phil isn't seeking to reassure him at all. Phil isn't asking Clint to protect him. No, it is Phil that is seeking reassurance, it is Phil that is asking to be protected, to be loved, to be cared for. Phil is the one asking for something that he never thought he’d have, never thought he’d have the time to have, never truly believed he _would_ have. His early relationships had fizzled out, and then the years went by, and his hairline receded, and the wrinkles started appearing, and the work - always the work - piled higher and higher, until Phil had all but disappeared under the calm, bland face of Agent Coulson.

But Clint - Clint had always believed, with every one night stand, every failed relationship, he’d always hoped for a second, third, fourth, fifth, twentieth, hundredth chance at love. Perhaps he is a child, like Natasha said, to believe in love. But he'd never had much of a childhood, so he can try and make up for lost time now.  Despite it all, Clint is still an optimist, and Phil isn't stronger than he is - here, Phil Coulson is not a pillar of integrity and competence, here in Clint’s cramped quarters, sitting on the creaky bed, he is just Phil, and _this_ Phil is Clint’s to protect and keep and care for.

“You know almost all my secrets now.” Clint says, watching Phil close the folder slowly.

“I hope you’ll stick around long enough for me to catch you up on mine.” Phil answers.

“Tell me one now.”

“I might be able to fall in love with you.” Phil says, and it is a couched statement, still nervous and unsure. But it will do.

“So, you want to do this? A...real relationship? Dating? Even though I’m obviously awful at - ” Phil asks, threading his fingers into the soft hair above Clint’s neck.

Clint rolls over. “Yes.” he answers. Confidently. Of course he wants this.

“I need you to sign these, then.” Phil says apologetically, reaching over to the desk to dump a small stack of paper onto Clint’s chest. “These are the ‘Exemptions to Fraternization Requirements’ forms, and there’ll be a ethics board review too. Agents Hill and Romanov will testify on our behalf. Sorry to ruin the moment.”

Clint laughs then, loud and breathless, and Phil laughs too, his relieved and giddy joy bouncing off the cold metal ceiling of the dreary room, and Clint thinks - _goddammit, I am so happy_. He signs the forms, grinning at Phil all the while. Phil looks at him, and that look in Phil’s eyes, deep and adoring and crinkled and piercing - well, Clint wants to bottle it up, because that look has all the joy in the universe in it.

And then, Phil kisses Clint with the sort of passionate fervor that says “You are not required to show up for morning training tomorrow.”
    
    
    to tashaface: do NOT pick my locks tonight
    from tashaface: i know, darling.
    from tashaface: living quarters are not soundproof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow, thank you for sticking with this for so long! I was going to include an epilogue(I've written a chunk of it), but I think I'd rather end it here. Again, thank you for all the kudoses and comments - it really means a lot, especially since I've really just started writing this stuff! 
> 
> Feel free to send me questions and prompts in my [ask box](http://dustjane.tumblr.com/ask)(or in the comments is fine too) - I'll be glad to write more, and fill in this silly little world for you. I am particularly fond of writing romantic comedy, awful sex and Maria Hill giving Phil Coulson lots of shit. :)


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